

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 








L. T. MEADE 


AUTHOR OF 

A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE,” “ FRANCIS KANE’s FORTUNE 
” WATER GIPSIES,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

5 AND 7 EAST SIXTEENTH STREET 


Chicago ; 266 & 268 Wabash Avenue 








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1 


JILL 


BY 

L. T. MEADE 

AUTHOR OF 



“a girl of the people,’’ “FRANCIS KANE’s FORTUNE,” 
“ WATER GIPSIES,” ETC. 




% - 




NEW YORK 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 


5 AND 7 EAST SIXTEENTH STREET 


Chicago : 266 & 268 Wabash Avenub. 

\ a'vN, 



Copyright, 1892, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, 


[A// rights reserved.^ 


JILL. 


CHAPTER I. 

The London season was at its height. The 
weather was warm and sultry, the days were at 
their longest. The shops were gay with beautiful 
dresses, richly trimmed bonnets, gloves, parasols, 
hats — the thousand and one pretty articles of use- 
fulness and beauty which are considered indispen- 
sable by the people who drive about in carriages 
and live in the large houses in the West End of 
London. 

The time was night, and the more important 
shops were shut, but the great houses in Gros- 
venor Square revealed at this moment their fullest 
and most brilliant life, for this was the time when 
the great receptions of the season were given. 

Before one of the largest and most important of 
these mansions a small crowd had collected. It 


6 


JILL. 


wa,s the sort of crowd who are fond of getting 
peeps inside the lovely palaces which they must 
not enter. Rough-looking boys, eager, pinched 
women, a few men, and even some babies were 
present. They jostled one another, and each in 
turn tried to force his or her way to the front rank. 
,They made remarks freely with regard to the 
people who were going inside the house. The 
beautiful girls and richly-dressed matrons called 
for their outspoken admiration. The men of 
princely mien and irreproachable attire caused the 
ragged girls and thin women to think timidly that 
fairy tales were true, and that real princes did live 
on the earth. The guests went up the carpeted 
steps and disappeared one by one into the mansion. 
The people in the crowd scarcely breathed as they 
watched them. How the ladies did trail their long 
and exquisite robes I How like angels the girls in 
white looked, how like queens and princesses the 
older women appeared, how kingly were the gentle- 
men who accompanied them ! Yes, the spectacle 
was a fairy one; it was delightful to enjoy it all 
for nothing. 

The crowd were in an excellent humor, and did 
not mind when the policemen somewhat roughly 


JILL. 


7 


pushed them back. All things considered, they 
enjoyed themselves quite as well as the people who 
went into the house ; they were not jealous or en- 
vious in the least. ■ 

Standing in front of this motley crowd, so much 
in front that the brilliant gaslight fell full upon 
their eager upturned faces, might have been seen 
a tall girl of about si^:teen, and two boys a* little 
younger. The girl was veiy upright, quite clean 
in her person, and not only neat, but picturesque 
in her dress. A many-colored cotton scarf was 
twisted in the form of a turban round her head ; a 
Targe apron of the same material nearly covered 
her black dress. On her arm she carried a large 
flat basket filled with roses, narcissus, forget-me- 
nots, and other summer flowers.^ ' Her eyes were 
very dark and blight, her hair black, her com- 
plexion a pure olive. She was not only a hand- 
some girl, but her whole effect was intensely for- 
eign and picturesque. Her carriage was so up- 
right, her simple pose so stately, that one or two 
ladies and some of the men who were going into 
the mansion were attracted by her appearance, and 
remarked her to one another. 

The girl gazed after them, her black eyes wide 


8 


JILL. 


open, her lips slightly parted, an eager, hungry 
expression all over her face. The two boys who 
stood with her kept nudging each other, and whis- 
pering together, and making remarks, some under 
their breath, some out loud, with regard to the 
gay company who were going into the house. 

The girl never spoke. Even when her brothers 
pushed her roughly, she only moved a little away 
from them in absolute silence. 

“ I say, Jill,” — the elder of the lads gave the 
young flower-girl a more violent shove than usual 
— “ be yer goin’ to stay here all night ? Most of 
the folks have come by now, I reckon, and we’d 
best be moving on ; there’s going to be no end of 
fun presently at that big house over there by the 
corner.” 

Jill shook herself, stared eagerly at the speaker, 
and then said, in a quick, impassioned voice, 

“I never see’d nothing like this afore. Bob. 
Sech dresses, sech faces. Oh, the light and gran- 
deur of it all ! I’ve pictured it of course lots and 
lots o’ times, but I never see’d it afore.” 

“ I told yer it ’ud be fine,” replied Bob ; “ come 
on, you’ll see more of the same sort at the big house 
at the corner. You take my ’and, Jill, and let us 


JILL, 


9 


run. Well get in front of the crowd ef we are 
quick.” 

“ No,” said Jill, “ I don’t want to see no other 
crowd. There were angels and princes and prin- 
cesses going into that ’ere house. I don’t want to 
see nothink more — my head’s full o’ the sight, and 
my eyes sort o’ dazzled. I’m goin’ ’ome now to 
mother ; I ha’ a power o’ news to tell her.” 

She turned away as she spoke, moving quickly 
through the crowd with her free, stately step. 

Many people turned to look at her, but she did 
not appear to see them. Even when one or two 
called to her to stop and sell some of her flowers, 
she did not pay the least attention. 

The gay streets where the grand folks lived were 
quickly passed, and Jill found herself in a poor and 
squalid neighborhood. The hour was late, but 
these streets were all alive as if it were noon. 
Children quarrelled and played in them, women 
gossiped, men lounged out of the public-houses, 
stared at Jill and called after her as she walked 
quickly by. 

A child tumbled down in front of her path and 
lay screaming and rubbing its dirty little face in a 
puddle. This sight caused her to stop ; she stooped, 


10 


JILL. 


picked up the little creature, gave it a fully blown 
rose from her basket and walked on again. 

At last she reached a large corner building which 
was let out in flats to poor people. She turned in 
here, ran up the stairs lightly and quickly, until 
she reached the top landing, there she stopped 
before a rudely painted door. 

The door had a knocker, which Jill sounded 
loudly. There Was no response whatever from 
within. She turned a little pale at this, put down 
her ear to the keyhole, and listened eagerl}^ Not 
a sound reached her from the other &ide of the 
closed door. She knocked once again, then put- 
ting her lips to the keyhole, she called through it 
in a high, sweet voice : 

“ It’s me, mother ; it’s Jill ! Open the door, 
please, mother, I ha’ lots of news.” 

No response came to this petition. The same 
absolute, unbroken silence reigned inside the room. 
Jill paused to consider for a moment. The exalted 
dreamy look left her face ; a certain shaipness, 
mingled with anxiety, fllled her black eyes. After 
a very brief pause, during which she watched the 
closed door with a kind of sad patience, she picked 
up her basket and ran down to the next landing. 


JILL. 


11 


The door here had a neat little knocker, which was 
polished and shining. Jill gave a single knock, 
and then waited for a reply. 1 1 came almost imme- 
diately. A woman with a night-cap on opened the 
door, uttered an exclamation at sight of the girl, 
put out her hand to draw her into the room, and 
spoke in a voice of agitation : 

“ You don’t mean to tell me, Jill Robinson, that 
yer mother ain’t ’ome yet ! Why the — ^ — ” 

“ Don’t say any more ! ” exclaimed Jill, eagerly. 
“ I’m goin’ out to look for mother. She’s maybe 
took faint, or something o’ that sort. Will you 
take care of my flowers till I come back, Mrs. 
Stanley?” 

“ Need you ask, honey ? You lay ’em in there 
in the ^pol. You ’asn’t sold too many to-day, Jill. 
What a full basket ! ” 

“ Yes, but they’re mostly buds. They’ll look 
lovely to-morrow when I freshens ’em up. Now I 
must go to look for mother.” 

“ This ain’t a flt hour for a girl like you to be 
out, Jill.” 

“ Any hour’s fit when a girl can take care on 
herself,” responded Jill, proudly. 

She ran quickly downstairs, leaving her flowers 


12 


JILL. 


in the passage of Mi’s. Stanley’s little flat. J ust 
outside the door of the big building she came upon 
a motley crowd of men and women. They were 
eagei’ly gazing at something, which excited at once 
their amusement and derision. 

The crowd was too thick for Jill to see what at- 
tracted them, but a sound, full, strong, and sweet, 
drew her attention. She was walking quickly past 
the people, but this sound arrested her steps. It 
caused the color to flame into her cheeks, and an 
angry light to leap out of her eyes. With a rapid, 
deft movement she pushed her way through the 
people. She guessed, even before her eyes assured 
her of the fact, what was the matter. 

“ Go it again. Poll Robinson ! ” shouted the 
men. “ Oh ! you took that note prime. You never 
wor in better voice. Go it again, my beauty ! 
Now then, let’s listen, all of us, to handsome Poll 
Robinson. You give us another song. Poll ; now 
then.” 

A tall, powerfully-built woman of about five-and- 
thirty was standing in the middle of the street ; 
her bonnet was pushed on one side of her head, her 
dress was slovenly, her steps sadly unsteady. She 
was trying to dance for the benefit of the assembled 


JILL. 


13 


company, and at the same time was sending up full 
rich notes, from a throat of vast compass, into the 
summer night. 

The song she sang was “ Cherry Ripe.” The 
crowd jostled one another, and applauded her 
loudly. When Jill burst like a young Fury into 
their midst, one or two of the men, and some of 
the women, were joining with hearty abandon in 
the chorus : 

“ Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, 

Ripe, I cry — 

Full and fair ones, , 

Come and buy ! ” 

“Go it. Poll, go iti” they shouted again. 

“ That’s better ! that’s prime ! Wish I could buy 
’em, makes my mouth water to hear on ’em. Oh ! 
you are in fine voice to-night. Poll Robinson.” 

“You let her be,” said Jill. “ Oh ! for shame ! 
ain’t you cowards ? Don’t you see as she don’t 
know rightly what she’s doing ? Oh ! I '^ate you — 
I ’ate you all. Don’t you see for yourselves she’s 
took mor’n she ought ? Do you think she would 
sing to you like that ef she knew the reason why ? 
No one ever tried harder to be good than poor 
mother. She never takes a drop except when the 


14 


JILL 


pain’s too bad to be borne. Oh ! ain’t you cowards, 
every single one on yer? Here, mother, come 
home with me at once. You make way, you bad, 
cowardly men and women. Go home to your own 
beds, and let mother and me go to ours. Come 
along, mother, it’s Jill ! Come home with me at 
once. No, you ain’t to sing any more. I’ll pay 
you all out for this, neighbors, see ef I don’t.’’ 

She took the woman under her wing, and, going 
quickly through the astonished, half-cowed, half- 
amused people, entered the house. 


JILL. 


15 


-■ r C. ^ '.. . ■ 

CHAPTER 11. 

civ .: ... 

Jill pulled her mother’s hand fiercely inside 
her arm. The presence of the angry, upright girl 
had a sobering effect on the older woman. A dim 
sense of shame and distress was stealing over her. 
She made violent efforts to keep from tottering, 
and, raising one powerful but shaking hand, tried 
to straighten her bonnet. 

Jill walked past Mrs. Stanley’s flat, without 
stopping to fetch her basket of flowers. When 
she reached the top landing of the house she slipped 
her hand into her mother’s pocket, took out the 
key which lay there, and opened the door which 
led into the little flat. The flat consisted of two 
rooms and a narrow passage. 

Still holding her mother by the arm, Jill went 
into the outer room. She found a box of matches, 
and, striking one, lit a candle which was placed on 
the round table. 

“ Now, mother, sit down,” she said, in a tender 



16 


JILL. 


voice. “ Here’s your own chair. Sit right down 
and rest a bit. I’ll be no time boiling the kettle, 
and then we’ll have a cup of tea both on us to- 
gether ; you’ll feel a sight better when you have 
had your tea, mother.” 

The woman sat on the edge of the chair which 
Jill had pulled forward, she loosened her bonnet- 
strings, and let her untidy, disorderly bonnet fall 
off her head of thick black hair. 

“I’ll never go and do it any more, Jill,” she 
said, after a pause. “ The pain’s better now, and 
next time it comes I’ll bear it. I know I’m tipsy 
now, but, sure as my name’s Poll Robinson, you’ll 
see, Jill, as I’ll never go and do it again.” 

“ To be sure you won’t, mother. Don’t you fret. 
Forget all about it — forget as you were tipsy jest 
now in the street. You’ll soon be as right as ever 
you wor. I’ll fetch some cold water to bathe your 
face and hands, then you’ll feel prime. You cheer 
up, mother, darlin’, and forget what you ’as done.” 

“ But you won’t forget it, Jill. I’ve shamed you 
before the folk in the street ; you can’t go and 
forget it, it’s contrary to nature.” 

“ Why I’se forgot it, mother, already ; you sit 
quiet, and let me tend you.” 


JILL, 


17 


While Jill spoke she bustled about, placed the 
kettle of water on the little gas-stove to boil, and, 
going out into the passage, filled a basin full of 
cold water from a tap. Bringing it back, she ten- 
derly washed her mother’s hot face and hands, 
combed back her disordered hair, coiled it deftly 
round her comely head, and then, bending down, 
kissed the broad, low forehead. 

“Now you’re like yourself, so sweet; why you 
look beautiful; you’re as handsome as a picter. 
We’ll forget all about that time in the street. 
See ! the kettle’s boiling, we’ll both be real glad of 
our tea.” 

The woman began to cheer up under the girl’s 
bright influence ; her head ceased to reel, her hand 
to shake ; she felt instinctively, however, that she 
had better keep silence, for her head was still too 
confused for her to talk sensibly. 

The tea was made, strong and fragrant. Jill 
stood by the little mantelpiece while she sipped 
hers. Her eager eyes watched her mother with an 
affectionate and sad solicitude. 

“ Now, mother, you must go to bed at once, and 
have a good sleep,” she said, when the meal was 


over. 


2 


18 


JILL. 


“I didn’t mean to go and done it,” said the 
woman again. 

“ ’Course you didn’t, mother, and you’ll never 
do it no more. Go and lie down now.” 

“ Where are the lads, Jill ? ” 

“ They’ll be in presently. It’s all right. You 
lie down ; you look awful spent and worn.” 

“ But the pain’s better, my gal.” 

“ That’s right. You sleep while you’re easy.” 

“ Jill, don’t you ’ate your poor wicked old 
mother ? ” 

“No, mother. I love you better than all the 
rest of the world put together. Now lie down, 
and don’t fret yourself. I has a sight of fine things 
to tell you in the morning ; but go to sleep now, 
do ! ” 

The exhausted woman was only too glad to 
obey. The moment her head touched the pillow, 
her tired eyes closed, and she went off into dream- 
less slumber. 

Jill stole softly from the room, closing the door 
behind her. 

She had scarcely done so before a shuffling, 
lumbering sound was heard on the landing; the 
outer door was banged vigorously from without. 


JILL. 


19 


and rough boys’ voices called to Jill to open and 
let them in. v 

She flung the door open without a minute’s 
delay. 

“ Come in,” she said, “ and take off your boots, 
and be quiet ef you can, for mother’s not well, 
and I won’t have her woke to please anybody. 
You’re both shameful late, and I’ve half a mind 
to let you sleep in the passage all night. There’s 
your supper ; and now do try to be quiet.” 

The elder boy, called Bob, pulled off his heavy 
boots and stole across the room. The younger 
followed his example. 

“ There’s your supper,” said Jill. She pointed 
to two plates, on which some lumps of oold suet 
pudding were placed. “ Do be quick,” she said, 
speaking petulantly for the first time, “ for I’m 
so tired myself I’m fit to drop.” 

“ Is it true that mother’s bad, Jill ? ” asked the 
youngest boy, peering up at his sister half anxiously, 
half wickedly. 

“ Yes, of course it’s true. Mother’s often bad. 
Why do you ask ? ” 

“ But old Hastie down in the street, he said that 
she had gone and — why, what’s the matter, Jill ? 


20 


JILL. 


You look so fierce that you quite take the heart 
out of a fellow.” 

“ You shut up,” said Jill. “ You whisper in 
this room one word of what Hastie said, and you’ll 
feel my fist, r can tell you.” 

“ Only it’s true, Jill, and you know iV’ said 
Bob, putting down his plate, and coming up and 
standing by his younger brother’s side. “ You 
needn’t beat the life out of poor Tom for telling 
the truth. You know that Hastie only spoke the 
solemn truth, Jill, and you has no call to round on 
Tom.” 

“Hastie told a lie,” said Jill ; “ and when Tom 
quotes his words to me, he tells lies.” 

“ Then mother hasn’t been out this evening.” 

“No; she’s been in her bed since two o’clock, 
orful bad with pain. You’re dreadful cruel boys 
even to doubt her. She’s the best mother on this 
earth. Gh, let me see Hastie, and I’ll give him a 
spice of my mind. Now go and lie down, the pair 
on yer. I’m shamed of yer bringing up them lies.” 

The boys slouched off, frightened at their sister’s 
blazing cheeks and fiery words. They lay down 
side by side in an old press bed at one end of the 
kitchen, and Jill, opening the door, slipped softly 


JILL. 


21 


down to fetch her flowers from Mrs. Stanley. The 
old woman was still up. She looked at the girl 
anxiously. 

“ You found her then, honey? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; quite easy. She was out for a little 
bit of exercise. She’s in bed and asleep a long 
time back.” 

“ Where you ought to be, Jill. You look fit to 
drop.” 

“ I ain’t, then ; I’m quite fresh. Where are my 
flowers?” 

“ There, dearie. Good-night to you, Jill Rob- 
inson.” 

“ Good-night, Mi-s. Stanley. Thank yer for 
keeping the flowers.” 

Jill took up her basket and departed. In the 
passage which belonged to her mother’s flat she 
spent some little time watering her flowers, remov- 
ing the withered ones, and making her basket look 
trim and fresh for the morrow. 

The clock which .belonged to a neighboring 
church had struck one long before she laid her 
head on her pillow. 


22 


JILL. 


CHAPTER III. 

About four o’clock on the following morning 
Mrs. Robinson stirred, opened her eyes and looked 
around her. 

The light was streaming full into the little bed- 
room. It was clean and fresh, for Jill would per- 
mit nothing else. There were no cobwebs to be 
seen on the walls, and the floor was white with 
constant scrubbing. The glass in the one small 
window was washed until it shone, and the little 
blind which was neatly pinned across it was fresh, 
and in perfect order. 

Poll Robinson lay in bed and gazed around her. 
The scene of the night before had passed com- 
pletely from her memory, and her mind now was 
altogether absorbed in wondering how she could 
outstrip Jill and smuggle some stale flowers which 
she had hidden the night before under her bed 
iuto her basket, 


JILL. 


23 


Jill never held with these doings, but Poll 
thought them perfectly justifiable. The way to do 
a thriving business was to mix the stale goods dis- 
criminately with the fresh, and to sell one with the 
other. Jill would not hear of it, and Poll had to 
own that Jill by her honesty and method, and by 
her own bright and spruce" appearance, had gained 
a very tidy connection. 

But though Poll liked the rnoney which, now 
flowed in regularly, she sighed more than once for 
the good old days when she need not scrub her sit- 
ting-room nor polish her windows, nor worry herseK 
about her unsold flowers. * 

The flowers did very well thrust under the bed 
in the old times, and they sold very well, too, 
mixed up with fresh bunches the next day. 

The neighboring clock struck a quarter past 
four, and Mrs. Robinson, with a profound sigh, 
raised herself on her elbow, and looked at her sleep- 
ing daughter. 

There was a good deal of resemblance between 
the mother and child. Both were dark, and had 
big brilliant eyes, and masses of raven hair. 

The face of the older woman looked young 
enough this morning. The lines of care, pain, and 


24 


JILL. 


dissipation had vanished with her last night’s sleep. 
A high color, partly caused by an inward fever 
arid ache, which scarcely ever left her, gave a false 
beauty to Poll Robinson’s face. 

She stooped, kissed Jill on her forehead, and get- 
ting outrif bed began to dress. She saw that the 
girl looked tired, and she determined to go to 
Covent Garden for the fresh flowers herself. 

She hastily put on her clothes, and slipping her 
flowers from under the bed, went out into the 
kitchen. The boys were snoring loudly in their 
press bedstead. Poll went across the room, and 
shook Tom vigorously. 

‘ ‘^Look yere,” she said, “ you tell Jill that I’m 
fetching the flowers this morning. Tell her to lie 
easy, and take her sleep out. Do you hear me, 
you good-for-nought ? Do you hear what I’m say- 
ing ? or are ye too sleepy to take it all in ? ” 

I hear right enough, mother,” replied Tom, 
rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Are you better this 
morning, mother ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure ; why shouldn’t I be ?” 

Tom looked down at Bob who was asleep. Then 
he glanced towards the open door of the bedroom. 


JILL. 25 

He was not at all afraid of his mother ; but he had 
a wholesome dread of Jill. 

“ Look yere,” he said : “ is it true what Hastie 
says?” i - -I 

“What did Hastie say •»-roo.T?. 

Mrs. Robinson placed her arms akimbo. 

“ He said as you were real bad last ‘night,— -real 
bad — and out in the street, you. mind.”^'0 jneyoO 
“ W ell, and what ef I wor ? j ’ . . , ^ -T. : -i*. f 
“ Only, Jill says it’s a lie. She says she’ll smack 
Hastie for saying it.” fait : 

Mrs. Robinson’s face underwent a quicks queer 
change. ibl Jooda 

“ Bless Jill,” she said. “ You lie down and go 
to sleep, Tom, and don’t bother me.” djf.C 

The boy slipped at once under the bed-clothes. 
He pretended to. sleep, but he watched his mother 
furtively. Seen now in her fresh trim morning 
dress she was a presentable, and even handsome 
woman. She put on a colored apron of the same 
pattern and design as Jill’s, twisted a turban round 
her head, and taking up her basket prepared to go 
out. ;rroT 

First of all, however, she went to an old bureau, 
and pulled open one of the small top drawers. In 


26 


JILL. 


this drawer she and Jill kept their loose pence and 
silver. She was looking now for the money to buy 
the flowers with which she must stock her basket. 

She knew that this time yesterday there were 
three shillings in pence and silver in the drawer. 
Now when she opened it, nothing whatever in the 
shape of money was to be seen. A piece of gay 
print with which she intended to make an apron 
for herself, had also vanished. 

Poll stood before the empty drawer with aston- 
ishment and confusion. Where had the money 
gone ? ; 

She thrust her hand into her pocket. Had she 
by any chance put it there when she went out to. 
buy drink ? If so, it was gone. Her pocket was 
quite destitute of the smallest coin. Could she 
have left the door open when she went out ? No, 
she was quite confident on that point. She had a 
vivid recollection of locking the door, and taking 
the key with her. 

The money was gone, and she could in no way. 
account for its disappearance. What was she to 
do ? She had not a half-penny in the world to 
buy flowers with. Should she wake Jill, and tell 
her of her loss ? No, she did npt want to dp that. 


JILL. 


27 


The girl was looking sadly tired, and Poll did not 
want to confess that through her weakness and 
want of self-control some of their valuable little 
earnings had vanished. 

She stood for a moment considering. Then she 
determined to go to the market, and trust to one 
of the flower merchants giving her sufficient flowers 
to stock her basket and Jill’s on credit. She must 
start at once, for the morning was passing, and 
the best and cheapest flowers would be sold. 

She opened the door, and closed it softly behind 
her. Then she ran with a quick light step down- 
stairs. No one would have recognized this trim 
and active woman for the disreputable-looking 
creature whom Jill had rescued the night before. 

She quickly passed the buildings where their 
little flat was, and entered the low neighborhood 
of Drury Lane. Drury Lane was a great haunt 
for flower-girls. Poll had lived there herself for 
years. A memory of the old free life came back 
to her as she walked, and she could not help 
breathing a hearty sigh. The old life seemed 
attractive to her this morning ; she forgot the 
blows her cruel husband had given her ; she forgot 
the dirt, and the sickness, and the misery. She 


28 


JILL. 


only remembered the absolute freedom from restraint 
the jolly, never-me-care sort of existence. Every- 
thing was altered now; for Jill had taken the 
reins into her own hands. She and her mother be- 
longed to the respectable class of flower-girls. 
They bought good flowers straight from the market, 
and sold them to regular customers, and had their 
own acknowledged corner where they could show 
their wares in tempting and picturesque array. 
They were clean, decent sort of people now. 
Poll knew this, but she could not take pride in 
the fact this morning. 

She walked quickly along, with her usual swing- 
ing, free sort of motion. Some of her old cronies 
nodded and smiled to her. Poll was so good- 
tempered and good-natured that the flower-girls 
who were still low down, very low down in the 
world, could not look on her with envy. She 
would have shared her last crust with the worst 
of them. 

Jill was not nearly so popular as her mother, 
for Jill was proud, and did not want to know the 
girls who had been the friends of Mrs. Robinson’s 
youth. 

A red-eyed wonaan, with a bent figure, a white 


JILL, 


29 


face, and a constant cough, came up and joined 
Poll as she approached the neighborhood of the 
great market. 

“And how are you, Betsy asked Poll. 
“ Does your cough hack you as bad as ever ? ” 

“No, it’s better,” replied the poor creature. 
“ I bought some of them cough-no-mores, and they 
seem to still it wonderful. I’m glad I met you. 
Poll; I think it wor the good Lord sent you in 
my way this morning.” 

The woman gasped painfully as she spoke. 

“ Here, lean on me, Betsy Peters,” said Poll, 
stopping and offering her strong arm. “ Don’t 
press me, like a good soul, for my side aches orful. 
Now then, wot is it, Betsy? ” 

“It certain sure wor the good Lord let me meet 
yer,” repeated Mrs. Peters. “ I cried to Him for 
near an hour last night, and yere’s the answer. 
It’s wonderful, that it is.” 

“ Only me and Jill we don’t believe in the pious 
sort,” answered Poll. “ Not that it matters, ef I 
can help you, Betsy.” 

“ Yes, but it do matter,” replied Mrs. Peters. 
“ It seems a pity, for that sort of belief is a real 
comfort to poor folk. My word, ain’t I held on to 


30 


JILL. 


it many and many a time ? It wor only last night, 
and I wor praying fit to burst my heart, and at 
last it seemed to me as ef I see’d Him, His face 
wondrous pitiful like, and his smile that encourag- 
ing. And I seemed to hear him a-saying, ‘ You 
hold ou, Betsy Peters, for you’re a’most in Paradise 
now. You give a good grip o’ me, and I’ll land 
you safe.’ My word I it did comfort me. It 
seemed to lift me out o’ myself. It’s a pity as you 
don’t hold on to that sort of tiling, neighbor.” 

Poll gave a quick, impulsive sort of sigh. 

“ Well, I’m glad as yx)u finds the comfort o’ it, 
Betsy,” she said. “ But what can I do for you ? 
We’re most at the market now.” 

“ Ef you could lend me a shilling to buy flowers, 
neighbor ? My man came in drunk last night 
and he carried away every penny as I put by in 
the tin box. There’s little Jeanie, she is low and 
wake, and I’ve nothing for her breakfast but some 
tea-leaves that I’ve watered twice afore. Ef you 
lend me a shilling. Poll, jest to see me over to-day 
I’ll pay you back sure and faithful to-morrow 
morning, so I will.” 

Poll’s handsome face grew dark. 

“ In course I’d lend it to you, you poor critter,” 


JILL. 


31 


she said, “ but I han’t got it. You’ll scarce believe 
me when I say that I come out without a penny piece 
in my pocket. Jill and me, we are well-to-do, as 
flower girls go, but yesterday some villain of a 
thief came in and stole our bits of savings. I ha’ 
come out now to ask Dan Murphy to give me 
flowern an tick. I can’t help you, neighbor, how- 
ever willin’ I am.” 

Mrs. Peter’s face turned deadly pale. She 
pulled her feeble arm away from Poll’s and looked 
at her with trembling lips and eyes that shone 
through a dim veil of tears. 

“ Oh, it seemes orful,” she gasped. “ And I 
made so positive as the Lord wor there, and that 
He heard me, and sent you as a hanswer. It seems 
— it seems as ef ” 

“As ef there weren’t no Lord,” repeated Poll. 

“ No, no ; ef I thought that ” Mrs. Peters 

turned ghastly, and pressed her hand to her heav- 
ing heart. 

“ And you shan’t, neighbor,” exclaimed Poll, a 
great wave of crimson spreading over her face. 
“ You shan’t lose your last drop of comfort, not ef 
I know why. You go and stand round there, 
neighbor, and I’ll come and share my flowers 


32 


JILL. 


with you — see ef I don’t. I’ll go on tick for enough 
for us both. You stand there, Betsy, and wait. 
I’ll be safe to come back to you.” 

Poll vanished almost as she spoke into the crowd 
of people who were already pressing towards the 
flower merchants and vendors of vegetables, roots, 
seeds, fruit, and the other articles sold in the 
market. 

The scene was an intensely busy and lively one. 
The farmers, who had come up from the country 
in the quiet hours of the night, had unpacked 
their wares, and spread them out to the best 
advantage. 

The costermongers and flower-girls were eagerly 
buying, wrangling, chaffering, nudging, and jostling 
one another. Now and then a high coarse laugh 
rose on the air, now and then an oath ; sometimes 
a cry of anger or disappointment. 

Poll, threading her way through the thickest of 
the crowd, approached a stall which belonged to a 
flower merchant from whom she and Jill constantly 
bought their goods. She had little doubt that he 
would allow her to replenish her own basket and 
Jill’s, and to get a bunch of flowers over and above 
the quantity she required, for poor Mrs. Peters. 


JILL. 


33 


Poll came up confidently. 

“ Is Dan Murphy here ? ” she asked of a small 
boy who stood by the stall, and who looked around 
him. 

“Dan Murphy? Don’t yer know?” he ex- 
claimed. 

“ Don’t I know what, you little beggar ? Get 
out of my way, and I’ll speak to him myself.” 

The boy responded to this sally by standing on 
his head. Then resuming his former upright 
position, he stuck his tongue in his cheek and 
winked at Poll. 

She raised one vigorous arm to give him a blow 
across his face, but he dodged her, and vanished. 

Her coast was now clear, however. She went 
up to the stall, which was well stocked with both 
fruit and flowers, and repeated her question. 

“ Is Dan Murphy here ? I wish to speak to him .” 

When she asked her question a man with a 
Jewish type of face stepped forward and replied 
civilly : 

“ Can I serve you, ma’am? ” 

Poll bestowed a withering glance upon this 
individual. 

“ No, lad, you can’t serve me,” she replied. 

3 


34 


JILL. 


“I want the owner of this stall, Dan Murphy. 
He’s an old crony o’ mine.” 

“ You haven’t heard then, ma’am, that Murphy 
has sold his business to me. This stall is mine 
now.” 

“ My word, but that’s a blow.” Poll was turn- 
ing away. 

“ Can’t I serve you, ma’am ? ” called the new 
owner of the stall after her. 

“No, lad, no; that you can’t.” 

She walked across the market, stepping daintily 
between long rows of flowering plants and great 
piles of strawberries, currants, raspberries, and 
other summer fruits. The air was redolent with 
the sweet, fresh smell of fruit and flowers ; the 
hawkers were pressing their wares, and customers 
were rapidly filling their baskets. 

Poll thrust her hands deep into the big pockets 
of her gay apron, and gazed around her. 

A vendor with whom she often dealt held up 
some bunches of pink and white peonies for her 
inspection. She knew how Jill’s face would darken 
and glow with pleasure over the peonies. What 
a sight her basket would look filled with these 
exquisite flowers. 


mi. 85 

The man had poppies of various colors, too, 
and any amount of green for decoration. 

“ Come, missis.” he called to Poll. “ You 
won’t see flowers like these yere in a hurry, and 
they’re cheap — dirt cheap. You see these poppies ; 
ain't they prime ? ” 

Poll shook her head. 

“ Don’t tempt me,” she said. “ I ain’t got a 
cent with me, and the only man as ’ud give me 
flowers on tick has just gone and sold his business. 
I do call it ’ard.” 

“ So do I,” said the owner of the poppies. He 
was a good-humored, rosy-faced young farmer. 
“You look a tidy sort,” he said ; “ not like any o’ 
they.” He pointed with his thumb in a certain 
direction where a group of slatternly flower-girls 
of the true Drury Lane type were standing. “ You 
don’t belong to ’em,” he said. 

“No, that I don’t. Worse luck for me. They 
ha’ got flowers to sell, and I han’t any.” 

“ I wouldn’t trust the likes o’ them with even a 
penn’orth of flowers on tick,” said the farmer. 

“And right you are, young man. You keep 
what you has got and trust no one with goods until 
you gets money for ’em. Good-morning to you.” 


36 


JILL. 


“ But, I say, look you here, missis.” 

“ What is it?” 

“ You look a tidy sort. Maybe I’ll give you 
some of these poppies. You’re safe to sell ’em, 
and you can pay me to-morrow. Here’s a shil- 
ling’s worth — these pink ones, and some white, and 
a bunch of green. You bring me the money to- 
morrow, won’t you ? ” 

The young fellow picked up a great bunch of 
the flowers, thrust them into Poll’s hands, and 
turned to attend to another customer. 

She stood still for a moment, too surprised to 
move. Then, with a flerce color in her cheeks, 
strode across the market to the corner where she 
had asked Betsy Peters to wait for her. 

“ Yere, Betsy,” she said, thrusting all the flowers 
into the woman’s basket, ‘‘ ef there is a thing as 
sells, it’s a white or a pink poppy. Seems as if 
the very stingiest of the ladies couldn’t stan’ up 
agin’ a pink poppy. You’ll owe me a shilling for 
these, Betsy, and you’ll pay me when yer can. 
Good-moming to yer ; I’m ofl back to Jill.” 


JILL. 


87 


CHAPTER IV. 

When Poll returned home and showed her 
empty basket, Jill could not help uttering an ex- 
clamation of surprise. 

“ Why, mother, you han’t brought in no flowers ! ” 
she said, “ and I made sure you had gone to fetch 
’em.” 

“ Let me set down, Jill. That pain in my side, 
it do seem to bite orful hard this morning.” 

“Oh, poor mother; set down and never mind 
the flowers. You shouldn’t have gone out so earl}^, 
you know you shouldn’t. Here’s a cup of coffee. 
Drink it, do.” 

The little kitchen was a picture of brightness 
and neatness ; the small stove was polished like a 
looking-glass. Jill placed a coarse white cloth on 
the table, drew it up to her mother’s side, placed 
{he breakfast cups and saucers in order, laid bread 


38 


JILL. 


and a piece of salt butter on the board, and, sitting 
down herself, filled two large breakfast cups with 
coffee, which was really good and fragrant. 

Mrs. Robinson drank off a cupful thirstily. 
She laid it down with a sigh of relief. 

“ You’re a real good gel, Jill,” she said. “ And 
now I’ll tell you what happened to me.” 

“ Never mind, mother. You take your break- 
fast, and set quiet ; I’ll go and fetch some flowers, 
myself, as soon as we ha’ done.” 

‘‘ You can’t, child ; there ain’t no money.” 

“No money? But there was plenty in the 
di’awer last night.” 

“ Look for yourself, Jill.” 

Jill paused in her occupation of cutting thick 
bread and butter. The boys had already eaten 
their breakfasts, and gone away. 

She gave a quick glance round the cosy little 
room. The sun shone in at the window. The in- 
fluence of the pleasant summer day was reflected 
all over Jill’s young face. 

“ There’s time enough,” she said, with a slow, 
satisfied smile. “ You eat your breakfast, mother, 
3,nd I’ll fetch the flowers arter.” 

But you can’t, when ther^ ain’t no money. \ 


JILL. 


39 


tell yer somebody crep’ in yere yesterday, most 
like when I wor — when I wor ” 

“ Never mind about that, mother. You had the 
pain bad, and you were drowsy, and you left the 
door on the latch. That were how the thief got 
in, wornT it, mother ? ” 

“Ef you like to have it so, child. Seems to 
me ” 

“ Yes, I like to have it that way,” repeated Jill. 
“ You were drowsy, and some one come in and 
took the money out of the drawer. Give me yer 
cup, mother, and I’ll fill it again.” 

Mrs. Robinson pushed her cup away from her, 
and stood up. 

“ Do you know what it is ? ” she said. “ That 
there are times over and over again when I’d a 
sight rayther you struck me than took things as 
you do.” 

“ But I couldn’t take ’em any other way, mother, 
you know I couldn’t. I —I love you too much.” 

Jill’s lips trembled. There was a fierce passion 
in the way she said “ I love you too much.” 

“ And I put shame on you larst night, child. 
And now we are beggars. All our littl§ savings is 
gone, an<l it’§ Qwing to me,” 


40 


JILL. 


“ No, we ain’t beggars — I ha’ a stocking put 
away in another drawer. It’s for Nat and me 
’gainst we set up housekeeping. I never spoke of 
it, cause I arned every cent of it arter hours; but 
I’ll take some to-day to stock our baskets, and then 
we’ll be off to work.” 

Mrs. Robinson strode noisily across the floor. 
She took Jill’s face between her two hands, and 
kissed her on each blooming cheek. Then she sat 
down with a profound sigh of relief. 

‘‘ Ain’t you a good ’un ? ” she said. “ Any 
mother ’ud be proud of yer. You hurry and buy 
the flowers, dawtie dear, and then we’ll be off.” 

Breakfast was speedily flnished, the breakfast 
things put away, and then Jill, drawing a ribbon 
from inside her dress, produced a small key. With 
this key she opened a small drawer, took some 
money out of an old stocking, locked the drawer 
again, slipped the key into its hiding-place, and 
went out. 

After she was gone Poll sat very still. The 
bright color which always flamed in her cheeks, 
had somewhat faded ; her big, dark eyes looked 
weary. After a time she gave utterance to a low 
mQa^t 


JILL. 


41 


This pain’s orful,” she murmured. “ I’d give 
the world for a nip of brandy. Coffee ! What’s 
coffee when you ache as I ache ? A sip or two of 
hot gin, or brandy and water, ’ud make me feel 
fine. Jill’s the best gel, but she don’t know what 
it is to have the thirst on her like me.” 

Poll went into the little sleeping-room and flung 
herself across the bed. When Jill returned with 
the flowers she found her lying there, her face 
white and drawn, her eyes closed. 

At the sound of the brisk step. Poll made a 
vigorous effort to sit up, hut Jill’s young glance 
could not be deceived. 

“ You shall not stir to sell a flower to-day,” she 
exclaimed. “ You lie where you are, and take a 
good rest. I ha’ got some beauties in the way of 
flowers, and I’ll sell ’em all, and we’ll have a jolly 
supper to-night. I met Nat when I were out, and 
he said he’d come in to supper. You stay where 
you are, mother, and Pll ask Mrs. Stanley to come 
and see arter you. I know she will, ef I ask her.” 

“ The pain’s werry had this morning, Jill.” 

“ Mrs. Stanley shall go and fetch a bottle of 
soothing stuff from the chemist round the 


42 


JILL. 


corner. That’ll put you to sleep, and then you’ll 
be a sight better. Now I must go.” 

Jill kissed her mother, took uj) her flower basket, 
stopped on the next landing to speak to Mrs. Stan- 
ley, and finally tripped downstairs with her basket 
of blooming flowers on her arm. 

Outside the house she was met by a tall, fair- 
haired young costermonger, who took her basket 
from her, and turned to walk by her side. 

“ You shouldn’t do it, Nat,” she said. “It’s a 
sin to be wasting your time, and the morning’s late 
enough as it is.” 

“ Late ? ” echoed the young giant with a gay 
laugh. “ Why it ain’t nine yet, Jill, and anyhow 
I stole the time from my breakfast. I can just 
walk as far as your stand with you. And you’ll 
give me a posy for my pains, won’t you ? ” 

“ You choose it, Nat,” said Jill. 

“ No, no, you must do that. Ain’t you got a 
rose under all ’em flaring poppies, and a bit of 
mignonette ? Them’s my style. You make ’em 
up for me, Jill, in a posy, and I’ll wear ’em in my 
button-hole all day, no matter -who chaffs me.” 

Jill replied by a gay little laugh. The summer ip 


JILL. 


43 


the day got more and more into her face. She gave 
Nat many shy and lovely glances. 

“ Look yere,” he said suddenly ; “ you ain’t 
answered my question.” 

“What is it, lad?” 

“ When are we to he married, Jill ? I’ll ha’ a 
holiday in three weeks, and I thought we might go 
before the registrar just then, and afterwards go 
away for a week into the country. What do you 
say?” 

“ Oh, I can’t say nothing. There’s mother, you 
know.” 

“ But your mother won’t keep us apart, Jill. 
That ’ud be cruel.” 

“ No, but I can’t leave her. You know that.” 

“ Well, look here ; I don’t want you to leave 
her. I’m doin’ well wid my barrer, and you and 
me, we might take the flat alongside of Mrs. Stan- 
ley’s, just under where you now live. Surely your 
mother and the boys could manage for one another, 
and you’d be always close to see to ’em, ef they was 
in any fix. The rooms is to be let, I know, and ef 
you say the word, Jill, I’ll speak to the landlord 
this very, night,” 


44 


JILL. 


“ But that flat costs a heap o’ money ; it don’t 
seem right nohow,” said Jill. 

‘‘ Yes, it’s as right as anything, darlin’. I’m 
’arning good money now, it’s all perfectly square. 
You leave it to me. You say yes, Jill; that’s all 
you ha’ got to do.” 

“ I’ll think it over, lad, and let you know to- 
night. Here we are at my stand now. Good-bye, 
Nat dear — oh, and here’s your posy.” 

The young man took it with a smile. 

“ Pin it in for luck,” he said. “ Now I’m off. 
I’ll be sure to come round this evening.” 

He blew a kiss to Jill, turned a corner, and dis- 
appeared. 

Her stand was outside a large railway station. 
Six or seven other girls also sold flowers there, but 
not one of them could vie with Jill for picturesque 
arrangement. 

She sat down now, and taking up her basket 
began hastily to divide her flowers into penny and 
twopenny bunches. This piece of work she gen- 
erally did at home, but to-day she was late, and had 
to arrange her wares as quickly as she could while 
waiting for her customers. 

The suu ehone eiH over her as she ^vorl^e^i, She 


JILL. 


45 


made a gay bit of color, and more than one per- 
son turned to look at her. Her black rippling hair 
was coiled round and round her shapely head. 
Her turban, too hot for this sultry day, was flung 
on the ground by her side. Her black dress fitted 
her slim figure to perfection, and her gay, many- 
colored apron gave a bizarre effect to her costume, 
which exactly suited the somewhat foreign type 
of her face. 

The flower-girl who sat next her, in her untidi- 
ness, her dirt, and almost rags, acted as a foil to 
Jill. She had bedizened her person in a cheap 
dress of faded crimson. Her hat, nearly a foot 
high, was perched on the back of her uncombed 
head. It was trimmed with rusty crape and ren- 
dered gay with one or two ostrich feathers, and 
some bunches of artificial poppies. 

This woman, between forty and fifty years of 
age, was, in her way, a favorite. She indulged 
in a brogue which declared her Irish origin, and 
whatever the weather, whatever the prospect of 
the flower-sellers, she always managed to keep the 
laugh and the ready jest going. 

“ Did you ask me what me name was, honey ? ” 
she would say to a customer attracted by the gleam 


46 


JILL 


of mischief in her eye. “ Oh, then, glory be to 
heaven, it’s Molly Maloney, at your sarvice, and 
where would you find a better or a swater ? Do 
take a bunch of flowers, lady, do now, and I’ll pray 
for a good husband for you every time as I goes 
down on my bended knees.” 

Sallies of this sort provoked smiles even from 
the refined people who wished to buy flowers, and 
secured roars of laughter from the other flower girls 
who delighted in egging Molly on to “give sauce,” 
as they termed it, to the fine folks. 

On this particular morning, however, Molly’s 
pleasantries were not so frequent as usual. She 
whispered to Jill that little Kathleen, that jewel 
of a girl, was down with a cowld, and she was 
moighty bothered with her, and didn’t know 
whether to send for the doctor or not. 

“ You might come and see her, Jill,” said Molly 
Maloney. “ Kathleen she worships the very ground 
you treads on, and she’s down with a cowld or a 
faver, or something. I’ll have no doctor to see 
her, no that I won’t, for he’d be after ordhering her 
off to the hospital, and that ’ud kill her entirely. 
Oh, glory to heaven, what fine flowers you have 
this morning, Jill ! I’m ’shamed to sit near you, 


JlLl. 


47 


that I am. Look at mine. They were under 
Katie’s bed all night, and they seem to smell of the 
faver. Oh, I’ll get ’em off ef I sell ’em chape. 
You lend me a coil of wire, honey, and you’ll see 
how I’ll smarten ’em up.” 

Jill handed the wire to her neighbor with 
scarcely a remark. Her thoughts were far away 
with Nat, and the home they might soon have to- 
gether. She wondered if they might really dare 
to take that flat next to Mrs. Stanley’s. If by any 
possible means they could justify for themselves 
the extravagance of paying seven shillings a week 
for their rooms. Then how would her mother do 
without her ? Who would help her mother when 
she got those queer attacks of pain, those unsup- 
portable hours of agony which had hitherto found 
relief only in the one way ? 

Jill knew that it was very wrong of her mother 
to drink. The girl’s own nature was so upright, 
so sweet, so high, that it was absolutely repulsive 
to her to see anyone in the state in which she often 
now discovered her poor mother. The aim and 
object of her life was to hide the disgrace of her 
mother’s intemperate fits from the rest of the 
world ; she called them by any name but the true 


48 


JILL. 


one. She was ready to cover them with any 
amount of lies if necessary ; she would have 
knocked down any one who accused her mother 
of getting drunk ; even Mrs. Robinson herself, in 
her repentant moments, did not dare to call a spade 
a spade — did not dare to speak of what she had 
done by its true name. Jill never blamed her, 
she put it all down to the pain and misery. It 
seemed to her there was no remedy left to her 
mother but to drown her sufferings in drink, and 
yet the fact cast a shadow over her own life, and 
caused her to sigh heavily, even though Nat was 
coming in the evening, and they could talk about 
their wedding day, which was so soon to ar- 
rive. 

As she arranged her flowers with deft fingers 
this morning she made up her mind that she would 
say yes to Nat. She would be in the same house 
with her mother, and could still look after her. 
As to the boys, they were both of them doing for 
themselves. Jill scarcely gave them a thought at 
all in making her arrangements. 

Yes, she would marry Nat, and trust to his never 
discovering that ugly secret about her mother. 

She had just finished the arrangement of her 


Jill. 


49 


basket, picturesquely heaping her masses of pink, 
white, and yellow poppies at one side, and her 
roses and forget-me-nots at another, when a tall 
girl, dressed in the costume of the Flower-Girls’ 
Guild, came up with a basket of flowers on her arm 
and spoke to her. 

She was a handsome girl, and looked striking in 
her neat gray dress and scarlet apron. Her hair 
was of a pale gold, her eyes large and blue ; the ex- 
pression of her somewhat pale face a little austere. 
Her basket was full of lovely fresh flowers, but 
although they were superior to Jill’s in quality, 
they did not make nearly so fine a show. 

“ Is that you, Jill ?” she called out. “ Nattold 
me you were here. Why ain’t your mother with 
you ? Ain’t she well ? ” 

“ No, she has a fit of that old pain over her,” 
responded Jill. “I left her lying down. The 
pain takes a deal out of her, and I thought she had 
best be quiet.” 

“ Don’t she see no doctor ? We has a splendid 
one belonging to the Guild ; ef you and your 
mother would only join, you’d get a heap o’ good 
out of it, Jill. But you’re that obstinate, and 
when the best thing in the world is offered to you, 


50 


niL. 


you won’t so much as open your eyes to see it. 1 
wonder Nat holds on to you, that I do.” 

Jill smiled, reddened, and was about to reply, 
when the Irish woman called out in her brilliant 
tones, 

“ What I say of Nat Carter is this, that he’s the 
luckiest gossoon in all London to have got the pur- 
tiest bit of a colleen to say she’ll wed him. Why, 
you ain’t got looks fit to hold a candle to her, Susy 
Carter, even though you are Nat’s sister.” 

“ Well, well,” said Susan, in a slightly patroniz- 
ing manner, “ we must each of us go our own gait. 
If Jill and her mother won’t join the Guild, I can’t 
force ’em. Maybe you’ll do it later on, if Nat 
wishes it, Jill. And, oh, what do you think, here’s 
a bit o’ luck ; I has just got that stand I was wait- 
ing for so long near the Marble Arch. The girl 
wot had it died yesterday, and I’ve stepx)ed into 
her shoes, and a right good think I’ll make of it. 
I must be off now, or I’ll lose customers. Good- 
bye, Jill. Oh, by-the-way, you might as well mass 
these colors for me. I can’t make my basket look 
like yourn, however hard I try.” 

Susy Carter put her basket on the ground as she 


51 


N 


JILL. 

spoke. Jill bent over it, re-arranged the flowers 
without a word, and returned it to her. 

“ Thank you — thank you,” she cried, delightedly. 
“ Why, Jill, what fingers you has I Who but your- 
self would have thought of putting these pink 
peonies close to all them crimson poppies, and then 
throwing up the color with this bunch of green. 
Oh, it’s daring, but it’s lovely ; it’ll fetch like any 
thing. Now I’m off. You get your mother to see 
a doctor, Jill.” 

“ No, I won’t,” said Jill, shortly. “ I don’t be- 
lieve in ’em, neither does mother.” 

“ Right you are, honey,” exclaimed Molly Ma- 
loney, “ I don’t hold by docthors, nayther. If my 
little Kathleen dies of the faver — bless her, the 
darlint ! — why, I know as it’s the will of the Al- 
mighty. But ef the docthor came and gave her 
his pizens — what is it, miss — what now ? ” 

“ Do you say you have a child down in fever? ” 
said Susy Carter, speaking in a quick, passionate 
voice. 

The Irish woman was lounging with her back 
against the wall. She now started upright, and 
spoke defiantly. 

“ And why mayn’t I have my darlint child down 


52 


JILL. 


with the faver ? ” she demanded, her eyes darken- 
ing with anger. 

“ Did you keep those flowers in the room with 
the sick child all night ? ” 

“ Yes, my purty, I did. Would you like a 
bunch ? You shall have it chape. A ha’p’ny for 
this rose ; it’ll look iligant pinned on the front of 
your dress. Now, then, only a ha’p’ny. Why, 
there ain’t no chaper flowers in the whole of 
London.” 

“ It’s very wicked of you to sell those flowers,” 
said Susy. “ You may give the fever to a lot of 
other people by doing so. That’s the good of be- 
longing to our Guild. We have a beautiful cool 
room to keep our flowers in at night, so that no one 
can be poisoned by them. They keep fresh, and 
they last, and they don’t carry horrid diseases about 
with them. It’s very wicked of you to sell those 
flowers. You ought to throw them away.”' 

She picked up her basket as she spoke and 
marched off. 

Molly sat down, muttering angry words under 
her breath. 

“ I wonder you takes up with the likes of her, 
Jill,” she said, when she had cooled down suffi- 


JILL. 


53 


ciently to address a few words to her companion. 

Jill, who was in a day-dream, looked round with 
a start. 

- “ Take up with whom ? ” she said. 

“ That consated bit of a colleen, Susy Carter. 
You’re goin’ to marry her brother. Seems to me 
you’re throwing yourself away. Why, honey, 
you’re iligant enough and handsome enough to be 
any man^s chice.” 

“ Yes, but I love Nat,” interrupted Jill. “ I’m 
not marrying Susy — I don’t much care for Susy. 
Yes, ma’am? These bunches are twopence each, 
these a penny. I’ll give you this bunch of poppies 
for sixpence, ma’am, and put some green with 
it.” 

A lady who had just come up from the Under- 
ground Railway had stopped, arrested by the beauty 
of Jill’s flowers. She was holding a prettily dressed 
little girl of about six years old by the hand. 

The child was all in white. She had cloudy 
golden hair falling over her shoulders, her round 
pink and white face resembled a daisy in its 
freshness. 

The lady was in deep mourning ; the expression 
of her slightly worn face was sad, 


54 


JILL. 


“ Shall I put the poppies up for you, ma’am ? ” 
repeated Jill. 

“ Yes. I will give you sixpence for that bunch, 
but be sure you let me have some green with it.” 

“ I want to spend my penny on flowers, mother,” 
said the child. 

“Well, darling, choose. This nice flower-girl 
will give you a pretty posy for a penny.” 

“ I want two posies,” said the child. “ One for 
Dick, and one for Dolly. It’s Dick’s birthday, but 
if I give him a posy, and don’t give Dolly one, 
Dolly will cry.” 

The pretty child’s little voice was full of anxious 
confidence. In making her statement she felt sure 
of sympathy, and she addressed not only her 
mother, but Jill and Molly Maloney. 

Molly, who was squatting down on her knees, 
began to murmur an eager torrent of Irish bless- 
ings. 

“Eh, glory ! What a darlint it is ! ” she said. 
“ For all the world like my little Kathleen ! And 
so you want some flowers, my beauty? You let 
me sarve her, Jill. I has got rose-buds and mig- 
nonette all made up most enticing only a ha’p’ny a 
bunch,” 


JILL, 


55 


“ I want two bunches,” repeated the child in her 
clear, precise voice, “ one for Dick, because it’s 
his birthday, and one for Dolly. Dolly’s free years 
old, and she’ll cry if I don’t take her a flower. 
I’ve only got one penny.” 

She opened the palm of her little hot hand, and 
showed Molly the coin. 

“Now then, you shall choose, my pet,” said the 
Irishwoman. “ These bee-u-tiful flowers was 
growin’ on the trees half-an-hour ago; why the 
jew is scarcely dried on ’em yet. You choose, my 
pretty, you choose. Oh, the smell of ’em, why 
they’ll nearly knock you down with the swateness. 
Thank you, lovey, thank you. May the Vargint 
bless you, me darlint, and that’s the prayer of poor 
old Molly Maloney.” 

The child received the rather stale rosebuds and 
mignonette with silent rapture. Having received 
her prizes she scarcely gave another glance at 
Molly, but began chattering eagerly to her mother 
about the bliss which Dick and Dolly would feel 
when she presented the posies to them. 

The lady having paid Jill for the flowers, took 
the child’s hand and walked away. Molly gave a 
laugh of satisfaction as they did so. 


66 


JILL. 


“ I told you so,” she said, turning to Jill. “ I said 
if I sold ’em chape I’d get rid of ’em, and they 
was under Kathleen’s bed all night. I called ’em 
fresh to the child, bless her. She is a beauty, but 
— why, Avhat’s the matter Jill ? ” 

“Nothing,” said Jill, suddenly. “Look after 
my flowers, Molly, I’ll be back in a jifley.” 

With feverish haste she pulled some of her 
choicest button-holes out of a great heap in one 
corner of her basket, and leaving Molly open- 
mouthed with amazement, ran as fast as she could 
down the street after the lady and the child. 

“ Here, little missy,” she said, panting out her 
words, for her breath had failed her, “ you give 
me them posies and take these. These are a sight 
fresher and better. Here, missy, here ! ” 

She pushed some lovely gloire-de-dijon, red 
geranium, and mignonette into the child’s hand. 
The little one grasped them greedily, but held 
fast to her wired moss-rosebuds and forget-me- 
nots. 

“ I’ll keep them all,” she said. “ Thank you, 
girl.” 

“ No, no, make her give ’em up, ma’am,” said 
Jill, turning to the lady. “ I don’t think they’re 


JILL. 


57 


wholesome. The woman’s child is ill, and them 
flowers was in the room all night.” 

“ Throw them away this moment, Ethel,” said 
the mother in alarm. “ What a kind girl you 
are ! How can I thank you ? No, Ethel, you 
must not . cry. These are much more beautiful 
posies. Thank you, thank you. But how shame- 
ful that one should be exposed to such risks I ” 

But the lady spoke to empty air, for Jill, having 
seen the roses and forget-me-nots flung into the 
middle of the road, had instantly turned on her 
heel. 

Molly was rather cross when she came back, 
but as Jill gave no explanation whatever with 
regard to her sudden rush down the road, she soon 
relapsed into gloomy silence, and into many anxious 
thoughts with regard to her little sick Kathleen. 

The brilliant sunshiny morning did not fulfil its 
promise. In the afternoon the wind veered round, 
the sky became overcast, and between two and 
three o’clock a steady downpour of rain began. 

Such weather is always fatal to the selling of 
flowers ; at such times the ladies who are out in 
their fine summer dresses are little inclined to stop 
and make purchases. Gentlemen don’t want but- 


58 


JILL. 


tonholes when they are wrapped up in mackin- 
toshes ; in short, the wet weather makes the pleas- 
ure-seeking public selfish. 

Jill had been rather late arriving at her stand, 
and in consequence the gentlemen who almost 
always stopped to buy a buttonhole from the hand- 
some young flower-girl had carried their custom 
elsewhere. 

With the exception of the lady who had bought 
a sixpenny bunch of poppies, Jill had only sold 
two or three pennyworth of flowers when the 
downpour of rain began. As to Molly, even her 
halfpenny buttonholes, quite an anomaly in the 
trade, could scarcely attract under such depressing 
circumstances. 

The volatile creature began to rock herself 
backwards and forwards, and bewail her hard lot. 
What should she do, if she did not sell her flowers ? 
There was nothing at all in the house for little sick 
Kathleen. 

‘‘ Not even money for the rint,” she moaned, 
“ and that cruel baste of a landlord would think 
nothing of turning them both into the street.” 

She poured her full tale of woe into Jill’s ears, 
who listened, and made small attempts to comfort 
her. 


JILL. 


59 


“ Look yere,” said Jill, suddenly, “ I’ll tell yer 
a sort of a fairy tale, if you’ll listen.” 

“ Oh, glory ! ” exclaimed Molly, “ and I loves 
them stories. But it’s moighty cowld I am. You 
spake on, honey, and I’ll listen. It’s comforting 
sometimes to picter things, but Td rayther think 
of a right good dinner now than anything under 
the sun.” 

“ This isn’t a dinner,” said Jill, “ but it’s lovely 
and it’s true.” 

“ Fairytales ain’t true,” interrupted Molly. 

“ Some are. This is — I see’d it with my own 
eyes last night. I went with the boys to Grosvenor 
Square, and I see’d the fine folks going into a ball. 
There was the madams in their satins, and laces, 
and feathers and the men like princes every one of 
them. And the young gels in white as ef they 
were sort of angels. You could smell the flowers 
from the balconies right down in the street, 
and once I was pushed forrard, and I got a good 
sight right into the house. My word, Molly, it 
wor enough to dazzle yer ! The soft look of it, and 
the richness of it, and the dazzle of the white marble 
walls ! Oh, my word, what a story I could make 
up of a princess living in a palace like that. What’s 
fhQ matter, Molly ? ” 


60 


JILL. 


“ Whisht,” said Molly, “ howld your tongue. 
There’s some corpses coming down the road. If 
there’s one thing I love more than another it’s a 
corpse, and there are three of them coming down 
in hearses. Three together — glory I There’s a 
sight ! ’Tis a damp day they has for their buryin’, 
poor critters ! ” 

Molly stood up in her excitement, pushing her 
despised basket of withered flowers behind her. 
The wind had blown her tall hat crooked, and had 
disarranged her unkempt gray hair, which sur- 
rounded her weather-beaten countenance now in 
grisly locks. 

Putting her arms akimbo, she came out from 
under the shelter of the railway portico to see the 
funeral processions go by. Three hearses, one 
following the other — such a sight was worth a 
wet afternoon to behold. Molly, in her excitement, 
rushed back to where Jill was standing, and caught 
her roughly by the arm. 

“ Come on,” she said. “ They are the purtiest 
coffins I has seen for many a day. By the size of 
them they must howld full-grown men. Ah ! 
what a wake the critters would have had in ould 
Ireland ! Swate it would have been, and wouldn’t 


JILL. 


61 


the whiskey have flown around ! Ah, worra me, 
it’s a sorrowful day when they don’t wake the 
dead. There they go ! there’s the first — six foot 
high if he was an inch — a powerful big coffin he 
takes. Well, he’ll find it damp getting under the 
earth on a day like this. My word, Jill I Look 
at the flowers ! Why, they’re heaped up on that 
coffin, and choice ’uns, too — roses and lilies, and 
them big white daisies. Oh, shame, they’ll all go 
underground, I expect. Here’s the second ! Can 
you see it, Jill? He’s not so big, five foot seven 
or eight, I guess. Heaps of flowers, too. Simple 
waste, I call it, to give flowers to a corpse. It can 
nay ther smell ’em, nor look at ’em. Ah, and here’s 
the last — poor faller, poor faller ! ” 

The Irishwoman’s ready tears sprang to her eyes. 
She turned and faced Jill. 

“ He ain’t got one single flower on him ! ” she 
said. ‘‘Poor faller! Where’s his wife, or his 
swateheart ? Poor faller, I do call it a negleckful 
shame of them.” 

“But I thought you said ” 

“ Never mind what I said ; I forgits it meself. 
There’s the coffin, without a^scrap of trimmin’ on 
it, and the poor corpse inside a-frettin’ and a-mourn- 


62 


JILL. 


ing. Oh, it’s moighty disrespectful. Suppose it 
was your Nat, Jill? ” 

“ No, it should never be my Nat,” said Jill, with 
a little cry. 

Her quick, eager sympathies were aroused 
beyond endurance. The plain deal coffin, lying 
bare on the shabbiest of hearses, appealed to her 
innermost heart. 

“ He shall have posies, too,” said the flower-girl, 
with a cry. 

She rushed back to the corner where her basket 
was placed out of reach of the rain, swung it up on 
her powerful young arm, and rushing out fearlessly 
into the street, flung the brilliant contents all over 
the deal coffin. 

“ Let him have them to be buried with ! ” she 
said, addressing her words to a few of the passers- 
by, who could not help cheering her. 


^ILL. 


63 


CHAPTER V. 

Soon after this, Jill went home. She carried an 
empty basket, and what was far more unusual, a 
pocket destitute of the smallest coin. The few 
pence she had earned during this unlucky day, she 
had given to Molly, to help her to meet her rent, 
and to buy some necessaries for little sick Kath- 
leen. 

Jill went home, however, singing a low, glad 
song under her breath. Her temperament was 
very excitable, she had gone through times of great 
depression in her life, but she had also known her 
moments of ecstasy. Some of these blissful times 
were visiting her to-day. She did not mind the 
rain, nor her empty pocket. She was glad she 
had poured the flowers over that plain deal coffin. 
It gave her delight to think that the pauper should 


64 


JILL, 


go down to his grave as gaily decked for the burial 
as his richer brothers. 

She stepped along quickly and lightly, singing 
short snatches of the street melodies of the day. 
The fact of having an empty pocket could not 
trouble her to-night. Slie had only to draw on her 
secret store. She had only to take a little, a very 
little, from the money put carefully out of sight 
in the old stocking, and all would be well. 

It seemed only right and proper to Jill that to- 
day should be a day of gifts, that she should pour 
her flowers over a dead man, and should give the 
few pence she had earned to comfort a sick child. 

These things were only as they should be, for 
tomight the crowning gift of all would take place, 
when she put her hand in Nat’s and promised to 
wed him before the registrar in three weeks’ time. 

Jill reached home at last and ran lightly up the 
stairs to the top of the house. She was in a hurry, 
for she wanted to take some money out of the 
stocking to buy a suitable supper for Nat. If she 
could, too, she would purchase a bunch of cheap 
flowers to decorate the room. 

In her excitement and strong interest, she, for the 
first time, gave her mother the second place in her 


JILL, 


65 


thoughts. But as she reached the roughly-painted 
door which was shut against her, a sudden pang of 
fear went through her heart, and she paused for a 
moment before raising her hand to strike the 
knocker. Suppose her mother should be ill again, 
as she was the night before ! Suppose — a hot rush 
of color spread all over Jill’s dark face. 

Nat knew nothing of these illnesses of her 
mother’s. Nat had never seen Poll Robinson, ex- 
cept gaily dressed, bright good-humor in her eyes, 
pleasant words on her lips, and a general look of 
comeliness radiating from her still handsome person. 

Nat had always looked at Jill’s mother with 
admiration in his open blue eyes. Jill had loved 
him for these glances. Nothing had ever drawn 
him nearer to her than his liking for the comely, 
pleasant-spoken woman, who was so dear and be- 
loved to the girl herself. Suppose he saw Poll, as 
Poll was sometimes to be seen ! Jill clenched 
her well-formed brown hand at the thought. She 
sounded a long knock at the door, and waited with 
a fast-beating heart for the result. 

To the girl’s relief a step was heard immediately 
within, and Poll, her face pale, her eyes heavy from 
long hours of suffering, opened the door. 


66 


JILL. 

“ Oh, mother,” said Jill, with a little laugh, “ oh, 
mother dear.” 

She ran up to the woman and kissed her pas- 
sionately, too relieved to find Poll in full possession 
of her senses to notice the white, drawn, aged ex- 
pression of her face. 

“ Mother,” said Jill, “ here’s an empty basket, 
and I has nothing in my pocket, 'either.” 

“ You look bright enough about it, Jill,” said 
Poll. “ No flowers and no money I What’s' the 
meaning of this ill-luck ? ” 

“ No, no, mother, you ain’t to say the word ill- 
luck to-night. There ain’t no such thing, riot this 
night leastways. I’ll tell you another time about 
the flowers, and about having no money. Nat’s 
coming, mother, Nat Carter, him as I’m keeping com- 
pany with. And I’m — I’m going to say ‘ yea’ to his 
‘yea’ at last, mother. That’s why there shouldn’t 
be no ill-luck on a night like this.” 

Jill’s sparkling eyes were raised almost shyly to 
her mother’s. She was not a timid girl, but in 
acknowledging her love for the first time a sensa- 
tion of shyness, new, strange, and sweet, crept over 
her. 

She half expected her mother to fold her in a 


voluminous embrace, but Poll did nothing of the 
kind. She stood very upright, her back to the 
window, her massive figure flung out in strong re- 
lief against the background of evening light. But 
the pale, and even woe-begone expression of her face 
was lost in shadow. 

“ I must take some money out of the stocking 
to buy supper with,” said Jill. “ Susy may be 
coming as well as Nat, there’s no saying ; anyhow 
I’d like to have a good supper.” 

She walked across the room to the place where 
the bureau stood. 

“ Don’t, Jill,” said Poll, suddenly. “ I thought 
may be you’d be coming in hungry, and I has 
supper.” 

“ You has got supper ready, mother ? ” 

“ Yes, child, yes. Don’t stare at me as if you 
were going to eat me. I thought may be you’d be 
coming in hungry, and that the boys would want 
their fill, and that ” 

‘‘ Mother, you didn’t think as Nat were coming ? ” 

“ How was I to tell ? When gels keep company 
with young men there’s never no knowing when 
they’ll make up their minds to wed ’em. Anyhow 
I bought some supper for you.” 


68 


JILL. 


The conversation was interrupted by the arrival 
of the boys closely followed by Susy and Nat ; 
and, after a cheerfnl repast, their prospects were 
being talked over, when Susy broke in with : 

“ W ell, what I say is this, that seven shillings a 
week is a sight too much for you two to pay. 
It’s beginning extravagant, and what’s that but 
ending in ruin? Yes, I’m outspoke,” continued 
Susy, raising her shrill, confident young voice, 
“ and what I say is, ‘ begin small and you’ll end 
big ! ’ Ain’t I right, Mrs. Robinson? ” 

“ For sure, dearie,” said Poll, in an absent voice. 
She was scarcely attending. 

“ Be you a-going to get married, Jill ? ” exclaimed 
Tom in an ecstasy. “Oh, giminy! Won’t we 
make the cakes and ale fly round on the day of the 
wedding ! My stars, I’d like to go courting 
myself. Will you have me to go company with, 
miss ? ” 

He pulled his forelock and gave Susy an impu- 
dent leer as he spoke. She did not take the least 
notice of him, but continued in a tone of solemn 
earnestness, 

“You know, Jill, that you and Nat are goin’ to 
take the rooms under this. And what I say is 
they’re too dear and too many. What do you 


JILZ. 


69 


want with four rooms all to yourselves ? You’ll 
be both out all day, Nat with his donkey cart, and 
you with your flowers.” 

“May be not,” interrupted Nat. “May be I 
can arn enough for both of us.’” 

“Oh, no, you can't, Nat; and Jill ain’t the one 
to let you. You’ll both be out all day, and you 
can’t make no use of four rooms, let alone the 
furnishing on ’em. Now I ain’t talking all this for 
nothing. You are both set on the rooms, and it 
ain’t no use trying to turn obstinate folks from 
their own way. What I want to say is tliis, that 
I’m willing to take the best bedroom off you, ef 
you’ll let me have it, and pay you ’a’f-a-crown a 
week for it. And Jill can let me cook my food by 
her fire, and use her oven when I want to. That 
will be a bargain as ’ull suit us both fine, and your 
rent ’ull be brought down to four-and-six. What 
do you say, Jill ? I’m looking for fresh quarters, 
so I must have my answer soon.” 

Jill looked at Nat, who rose suddenly, went up 
to his sister, and laid one hand suddenly on her 
shoulder. 

“ Look you here, my gel,’’ he said, “ Jill and I 
can say nothing to-night. We’ll give you your 
answer in a day or so. And now, Jill, if you’ll 


70 


JILL. 


put on your hat we’ll go out a bit, and have a talk 
all by ourselves and fix up matters.” 

“It would be a right good thing for Jill to join 
the Guild,” said Susy. “ You ought to persuade 
her, Nat. She’d be a credit to you in the uniform, 
instead of going about the outlandish guy she is 
in that flashy apron and turban.” 

“ The prettiest bit of a wild flower in Lonnon 
for all that,” murmured Nat under his breath. 
His honest eyes glowed with admiration. Jill 
smiled up at him. 

She went into the other room to fetch her 
despised turban, which she tied under her chin, 
instead of coiling it as usual round her head. 

“ You’ll wait till we come back, Susy,” said her 
brother. She nodded acquiescence, and proceeded 
to give enlarged editions of her views on various 
matters to poor Poll. The boys lounged about for 
a little, then went out. 

Susy helped Poll to wash up the supper things, 
and then she drew in her chair close to the little 
stove, glad, warm as the evening was, to toast her 
toes, and quite inclined to pour some more of her 
wisdom over Poll's devoted head. 

Mrs. Robinson, however, had a knack of shutting 
up her ears when she did not care to listen. She 


JILL. 


71 


sat now well forward on her seat, her big hands 
folded on her knee, her large black eyes gazing 
through Susy at something else- — at a picture 
which filled her soul with sullen pain. 

Susy expatiated on the delights of the Flower 
Girls’ Guild, on the advantages of the neat uniform, 
on the money-profit which must surely arise by 
keeping flowers in the room provided by the Guild 
all night. Susy was intent on proselytizing. If 
she could only get Mrs. Robinson and Jill to join 
the Guild she felt that her evening’s work would 
not be in vain. 

Poll sat mute as if she were taking in every 
word. Suddenly she spoke. 

“ What are you staying on for, Susy Carter ? ” 

■ Susy, drawn up short, replied with almost 
hesitation — 

“ Nat told me to wait for him. But I can go,” 
she added a little stiffly, “ ef I’m, in the way. I 
ain’t one to stay loitering round in any room ef 
I’m not wanted.” 

You ain’t wanted here,” said Poll. “ It’s weary 
waiting for folks as has gone^ lovering, and besides 
I must go out myself at once.” 

Susy got up and said good-bye. Poll took her 


72 


JILL. 


hand, looked into her bright blue eyes and spoke — 

“ You has given me a power of advice this night, 
my gel/’ 

“ Yes ; oh, if you would think it all over.” 

“ I’m obleeged to yer, but I must own that I 
didn’t catch on to many of yer words. I had a power 
of thinking to do on my own account. Still I’d 
like to pay yer back in yer own coin.” 

“ What do you mean, Mrs. Robinson ? ” 

“ This is what I mean. Here’s a bit of advice 
for you. Leave that young man yer brother and that 
young gel my daughter to themselves when they 
are wedded. Don’t make nor meddle with them, 
or you’ll be doing a mischief. Now, good-night.” 

Susy went away, and Poll shut the door after 
her with a sort of vicious good-will. 

“I can’t abear her,” she muttered. “ Ef Nat 
Were her sort he shouldn’t have Jill.” 

Poll stood quiet for a moment, thinking hard. 
Then with a queer tremble about her full red lips 
she went into the little bedroom, took down a 
gaily-colored shawl from its peg, wrapped it 
about her person, and went out, putting the key 
of the little flat into her pocket. 

“ I can’t abear it,” she murmured, as she went 


JILL. 


73 


down the stairs. “ I has stood up agen it all day 
long, and now, though it’s the night when the 
child gives herself to another, though it’s the night 
when my Jill — the best gel in Christendom — ought 
to be happy, and shall be happy, still, I must get 
something to dull the bitter pain. Jest two 
penn’rth of gin ’ot, jest two penn’rth, and then I’ll 
be better.” 

Poll found herself in the street. She began to 
walk quickly along the gayly-lighted pavement. 
Her pain, bad and terrible as it was, did not inter- 
fere with her free, almost grand movement. She 
would soon reach the public-house, and two penny- 
worth of gin^ the money for which she held in her 
hand, would bring a certain deadness of sensation 
which was the unhappy woman’s only measure of 
relief. She walked on fast, her desire for the stim- 
ulant growing fiercer and fiercer, her wish to spare 
Jill’s feelings on this night of all nights less and less. 

A little mob of people blocked up the pavement. 
They were standing in front of a chemist’s shop, 
and were looking eagerly into the shop through the 
brilliantly-lighted windows.. 

“What is it? ’’said Poll, her attention arrested 
by the eager, excited looks of the crowd. 


74 


JILL. 


A woman came up and touched her on the 
arm. 

“ It’s me, Poll,” said Betsy Peters. “ I has sold 
all the poppies. I had a power of luck with ’em. 
Yere’s your shilling back agen, and may. the good 
Lord above reward you.” 

“ I don’t want the shilling. Keep it, neighbor,” 
said Poll. “Ef you had luck, it’s more nor Iliad; 
but you keep your luck, I don’t want it off yer.” 

“ There it is again,” said Betsy Peters. “ W orn’t 
I prayin’ for money to buy some of the medicine 
for little Jeaiiie ? And there, you has gone and 
give it to me.” 

“ Wot medicine? ” asked Poll. 

“ Stu:ff they sells in yere. There’s a sort of a 
doctor keeps this shop, and he has made pints of 
some wonderful stuff, and he sells it off in bottles. 
It’s warranted to cure colds, and brownchitis, and 
pains in the ’ead, and bad legs, and pains of all 
sorts whatever. Little Jeanie has turned that 
pettish after the brownchitis that I thought I’d 
get a bottle to brisk her up a bit. It’s powerful, 
’ot, strong stuff, and they say, folks as tried it, 
that it seems to go straight to the vitals, and lifts 
you up so as you don’t know yourselL” 


JILL. 


75 


“ And stops pain ? Do they say that ? ’’ asked 
Poll. 

“ Sartin sure. It’s a kind of an ease-all, that’s 
the right name for it.” 

Poll looked into the palm of her hand, which 
contained the solitary two-pence. 

“ How much do the stuff cost ? ” she asked. 

“ You get a big bottle for sixpence. It’s dirt 
cheap, dirt cheap.” 

“ You’re sure as it ain’t pizen ? ” 

“ Rayther. Didn’t Mary Ann Jones in the 
court take it, and Peter Samson, and a score more ? 
It’s fine stuff, strengthening and good. What is 
it, neighbor ? you look white. Ain’t you well ? ” 

“ I has a bit of a pain, Betsy. A bit of a grip 
just under my left breast. Oh, it ain’t nothing ; 
but I has a mind to try the medicine as dulls pain. 
It don’t seem to take you off yer ’ead, like sperits, 
for instance ? ” 

“No, no. You get a bit drowsy, and that’s 
about all.” 

“ Well, I have a mind to try it. I’m sorry, 
neighbor, but I must ask yer to give me four- 
pence back out of that shilling. I’ll pay yer back 
to-morrow in the market.” 


76 


JILL. 


“Oh, neighbor, it’s all yourn,” said poor 
Betsy. 

“ No, it ain’t, not a bit on it. Come into the 
shop with me, and we’ll get a bottle each of the 
stuff.” 

The two women pushed their way to the front, 
and soon entered the shop through the swinging 
glass doers. It was very hot inside, for the place 
was brilliantly lit with gas, and there was no proper 
ventilation. A mass of people were standing four 
deep round the counter, all waiting their turn to 
be supplied with the wonderful medicine. 

The chemist, a pale man, with bright, wonder- 
ful keen eyes, was handing bottle after bottle of 
the comforting stuff across the counter. Many 
sixpences were passed across to him in return ; he 
dropped them into the open till by his side. 

The sudden heat and closeness of the shop, after 
the outside air, proved too much for Poll. She 
was weak after her day of suffering, and it sud- 
denly seemed to her that the shop reeled, that the 
gas came down and blinded her, that the floor rose 
up to smite her in the face. Her black eyes looked 
vaguely across the world of confusion in which 
she found herself, then all consciousness left her. 


JILL. 


77 


CHAPTER VI. 

It seemed but a moment later that Poll opened 
her eyes, to find herself lying on a hard horse-hair 
sofa close to an open window. The chemist was 
bending over her, holding her wrist between his 
finger and thumb, and looking into her face with 
professional interest. 

“Ah, that’s nice,” he said, “ you are better now, 
you’ll do fine, if you’ll just lie still for a minute 
or two. Take a sip of this water. It was the 
close air of the shop. You are much too ill to be 
going about in this fashion, you know.” 

Poll put her hand to her forehead, gave the 
chemist a dazed glance, saw Mrs. Peters standing 
in the background, and struggled to her feet. 

“ Stay still, you are not fit to move yet,” repeated 
the chemist. “ This woman, she is your friend, I 
suppose ? will look after you, while I go back to 


jIlL 


78 

attend to my customers. I’m going to shut up 
shop in a moment, and then I shall return to you. 
I want to speak to you before you go.” 

He left the little room, and Betsy Peters, who 
had been crying, came up to Poll. 

“ My poor dear,” she said. 

“ I’m weak yet,” said Poll. “ I suppose I fainted. 
I never did that sort of thing before.” Then she 
glanced down at the front of her dress, which was 
open and disarranged. “ What did he do that 
for ? ” she asked in wliite anger. 

“ To let in the air. You was werry bad, Poll.” 

“ Then he found out ” 

“ He found out, my poor dear.’’ 

“ And you know it, Betsy Peters ?” 

“Oh, Poll, Poll, it’s the will of the Lord.” 

“ Don’t come over me with your cant. I’m 
going out now. I’d like a drop of the medicine 
ef what you tells me about it is true, but I’ll not 
wait. Good-night, neighbor, I must be goin’ 
home to Jill.” 

“ The chemist said as he’d speak to you, neigh- 
bor, and he seems a kind sort o’ a man. You 
oughtn’t to go away without seeing him.” 

“ I don’t want to see him ; let me pass.” 


i'Poll approached the door of the little room. It 
was opened from behind, and the chemist came 
back. 

“ I am glad yoii are better,” he said. 

Poll dropped a curtsey. 

“Yes, sir, and I’m obleeged to you. I’ll be 
goin’ home now.” 

“I should like to speak to you, first. Perhaps 
this woman would wait in the shop.” 

“ No, she needn’t do that,” said Poll. “ Jeanie 
will want you, Betsy. You’d best be goin’ back 
to her. Good-night.” 

Mrs. Peters turned away with the meek expres- 
sion habitual to her. Poll ? and the chemist found 
themselves alone. 

“ Now, sir,” she said, “ I know you has found 
out what’s up with me, but I don’t want it talked 
over. Words won’t mend it. Ef that stuff you 
sell is good for pain like mine I’ll pay yer for a 
bottle o’ it, and there’s an end of the matter.” 

“ The medicine I sell is good for a great many 
things, but it won’t reach your pain. There is 
only one thing for you to do, my poor woman.” 

“ Thank you, sir, I know that.” 

“ Then you are going ” 


80 


JILl. 


“ To the public-house round the corner? Yes, 
sir.” 

“ Good heavens ! How dreadful. The ease 
you get from drink only aggravates your suffer- 
ing afterwards. It promotes fever, and under- 
mines your strength.” 

“ I’d give a deal this minute for three or four 
hours’ ease,” said Poll. “ I’d drink a power of 
gin to get the ease, whether it were right or wrong.” 

“ Look here,” said the chemist. “ I’ll give you 
something to give you relief for the night. You 
can take it away with you, and when you drink it 
you will sleep sound, and your pain will go. To- 
morrow you must go into a hospital; you can be 
cured there — cured, I say.” 

Poll laughed discordantly. 

“ I believe a deal o’ that sort of talk,” she said. 
“No, they cuts you up to bits in the ’ospital, 
that’s what they does.” 

“You show your ignorance when you speak in 
that way. I tell you plainly that the only chance 
you have is to get into a hospital as fast as ever 
you can, and to stop drinking gin. If you go on 
as you are doing at present you will not live many 
months, and your death will be accompanied by 


JILL, 


81 


fearful suffering. Now do be sensible; believe 
that doctoi’s only mean your best good. Here, 
take this little bottle of medicine with you. It 
will give you a good night.” 

Poll thanked the chemist and walked out of the 
shop. Should she go a little farther to the public- 
house just at the corner, whose brilliant lights she 
could see from where she stood ? No. For once 
she would be prudent ; she would obey the che- 
mist’s directions, and trust to the medicine which 
she had put into her pocket giving her a night’s 
relief. 

She quickly retraced her steps in the direction 
of her home. She was anxious to be back before 
Jill and young Carter returned. 

She had just time to accomplish this purpose. 
Her bonnet and shawl were off, and a little par- 
affin lamp was burning brightly in the neat sitting- 
room when the two young people came in. 

Jill went straight up to her mother and kissed 
her ; then taking Nat’s hand, she said, in a low, 
sweet voice which thrilled right into the heart of 
the older woman, 

“We has it all settled, mother. He’ll be my 

mate, and I’ll be his. We’re to be husband and 
6 


8 ^ 


JILL. 


wife in less than three weeks now, till death us do 
part ; that’s what the Bible says, ain’t it, Nat ? ” 

“ I was wed in a church, long, long years ago,” 
answered Poll, “and they said words o’ that sort. 
You ain’t goin’ to take my gel afore the Kegistrar, 
be you, Nat?” 

“ I’ll do as Jill pleases,” replied Nat. “ I ain’t 
one for churches. I never did ’old by what you 
call religious folk. To be honest and upright and 
sober, that wor religion enough for me. To be 
sober and honest, and to speak the truth allers, 
that’s my dreed. But ef Jill wants the church 
and the parson, why she may have ’em ; I’m agree- 
able.” 

“ I want the words, ‘ Till death us do part,^ ” 
said Jill. “ Do they say them words at the Regis- 
try Office, Nat ? ” 

“ Not as I know on, my gel.” 

“ Well, mother looks as ef she’d drop. ,We can 
settle that matter another time. Perhaps you’d 
best be goin’ home now, Nat. I see as Susy has 
left already.” 

“Yes,” said Poll, “ I sent her home. I said it 
wor weary work waiting for lovers. Well, good- 
night, Nat Carter. You’ll be good to Jill.” 


JILL. 88 

“ I hope I will, Mrs. Robinson. Ef love can 
make me good to her, then she’s safe enough.” 

“ She’s the sweetest gel man ever took to wife,” 
continued Poll. “ She’s sound as a nut through 
and through, both mind and body. See you treat 
her well, or I’ll give you my curse.” 

“ Mother ! ” said Jill, in a voice of pain. 

Poll pushed Jill aside, with a fierce gesture. 

“ Let me be, gel,” she said. “ I must have my 
say out. Don’t you suppose as it gives me pain to 
hand you over to another, even though it is Nat 
Carter, who I think well on ? And I don’t mind 
saying to his face that ef he treats you bad, my 
curse’ll foller him wherever he is. It ain’t a light 
thing to have the curse of a mother on you, young 
man, so you’d best be careful.” 

Poll’s words came out with such sudden force 
and venom that Jill turned pale, and going up to 
her lover hid her face against his shoulder. 

Nat was silent for a moment in his astonish- 
ment ; then throwing his strong arm round Jill, 
he said with a faint, sweet smile, 

“ And ef I treat her well, even half as well as 
she deserves, you’ll bless me, won’t you, Mrs. 
Robinson ? ” 


84 


JILL. 


“ Ay, lad, that’s true enough. I’ll give you my 
blessing for what it’s worth. I don’t fear but 
you’ll be upright, Nat: but yours is a ’ard creed, 
and may be it ’ll turn you a bit ’ard, by-and-by.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by my having a 
’ard creed. A feller wouldn’t be worth his salt 
what wasn’t sober, honest, and truthful.” 

“ Right you air, lad.” Poll laughed bitterly. 
“ Well, good-night to you, and think on my 
words.” 

Jill accompanied Nat into the passage. 

Mother’s werry tired,” she said, “ and she ain’t 
as well as I’d like to see her. She suffers a good 
bit of pain now and then, and she feels me giving 
myself to you. You mustn’t take agen her words, 
Nat.” 

You may be sure I won’t do that, sweetheart, 
seein’ as she’s your mother. But ef she’s not 
well, Jill, oughtn’t she to go to a ’orspital.” 

“ No, no, she’ll never do that. Good-night, Nat, 
good-night.” 

“Be sure you keep that bit of money I give you 
to take care on safe, Jill. It’s for my mate, Jim 
Williams, and I’ll have to give it up to him on 
Saturday night. It’s a load off my mind you 


JIZ.L. 


85 


having it, for I don’t like the lodgings I’m in now 
a bit. I don’t think the folks are straight, and 
five pounds is a goodish lump of money,” 

“ I’ll put it in the stocking with my own savings,” 
said JiU. “ Good-night, Nat.” 


86 




CHAPTER VII. 

The boys came in presently, and Jill and her 
mother went to bed. The young girl’s head scarcely 
touched her pillow when she was in the land of 
dreams, but the older woman stayed awake. 

She held tightly clasped in her hand the little 
bottle which the chemist had given her, and which 
was to give relief to her suffering. It was in her 
power to take the cork out of the bottle, and drink 
off the contents at any moment, but she refrained 
from doing so. 

Cruel as her pain had been all day she did not 
want to drown it in oblivion now ; she wished to 
stay awake, she did not want the short hours of 
the summer night to slip away in forgetfulness. 

Poll stretched out one hot hand, and laid it softly, 
with a mother’s tenderness on the shoulder of 
the girl who slept so peacefully at her side. It 
was pleasant to touch that young form ; it was such 


JILL, 


87 


ease to her tortured mind that it was almost as good 
as ease of body would have been. 

Poll had always loved Jill with a curious, pas- 
sionate, wayward affection. She had married a 
man whom she had not greatly cared for. He had 
been cruel to her in his time, and she had looked 
upon his death as a deliverance. She was the 
mother of; three cliildren, but two of them seemed 
to Poll to belong to her husband, and one to her. 
The boys were rough a.^d commonplace ; they were 
just like their father ; Jill was beautiful both in 
mind and body, and Jill with her sweetness and 
love, her sympathy and Jenderness, was Poll’s very 
own. She was built on her model — ^the same fea- 
tiures, the same dark eyes, the same thick coils of 
raven-black hair ; a trifle more of refinement in the 
girl than in the mother ; a shade or two of greater 
beauty; added to this the. glamour of early youfh, 
but otherwise Jill was Poll over again. 

Heart to heart these two had always understood 
each other ; heart to heart their love was returned. 
Now Jill was giving herself to another. It was all 
in the course of nature, and Poll would not have 
wished it otherwise. 

Had things been different, had that ache in her 


88 


JILL. 


breast never been, and in consequence bad that 
craving for strong drink never seized her, she might 
have been happy with Jill’s children on her knees. 

Had everything been different she might have 
taken Nat into her heart, and loved him for her 
daughter’s sake. 

But as things were. Poll felt that she could 
never loye Nat ; for although he little guesSed it, 
he was the means of separating her from Jill. 

Poll lay awake all night close to the girl ; she 
could not possibly waste the precious hours in sleep, 
because she meant to go away from her forever in 
the morning. Poll felt that it would be utterly 
impossible for her to keep sober always, and it was 
part of Nat’s creed that sobriety was godliness. 

She had made up her mind what to do with the 
quick, fierce tenacity which was peculiar to her, 
when she heard the young man speak. 

The chemist had told her only too plainly that 
she must go into a hospital or die. Poll preferred 
death to the hospital ; but Jill should not witness 
her dying tortures, and Jill’s husband should never 
know that her mother had been one of those base, 
low women who get rid of their miseries in drink. 

Jill did not want Poll anjr longer now, and 


JILL. 


89 


because she loved her, the poor soul determined to 
go away and leave her. . 

“ I’ll drink the stuff in the little bottle to-morrow 
night,” murmured Poll. “ I’ll want it then, but I 
like to lie wide awake and close to the child to- 
night. When the light comes in I’ll look well at 
all her features. I know ’em, of course, none 
better; but I’ll take a good filling look at ’em 
when the light comes in.” 

She lay still herself, great pulses throbbing all 
over her body, the pain without becoming grad- 
ually less in intensity, by reason of the greater 
pain which surged and surged within. 

There was one creature whom she loved with 
the fierce, hungry intensity of an untutored, a wild, 
and yet in some ways a noble nature. The bond 
between her and her daughter was about to be 
snapped. She herself, through her own deed, 
would cut the cord which bound them. 

The light stole in at the window, at first faintly, 
then with more and more glad beams of sunshine 
and joy. Poll heard a neighboring clock strike 
three. She said to herself, 

“ I’ll lie and look at the child until the half-hour 
sounds, then I’ll get up.” 


90 


JILL. 


The minutes dragged themselves away, too 
slowly in one sense, too quickly in another. The 
solemn boom of the half hour rang out into the 
sleeping morning. Poll rose very softly, and 
dressed herself. 

“ I must have some money, she murmured. 
“ I’ll take a sovereign or two out of Jill’s stocking. 
She’d be glad to give it me, bless her, and I’ll 
write on a scrap of paper that I took it, and that 
I’m gone, and that she’ll never be troubled by me 
no more. Oh, poor Jill, it ’ud, be cruel to write 
like that, for I never did trouble her. With all 
my sins, I never troubled my gel. We was knit 
too close, heart to heart, for either of us to trouble 
t’other.” 

Poll stooped down as she spoke, drew away the 
bed-clothes, and putting her hand lightly and 
softly against Jill’s warm throat revealed a narrow 
blue ribbon, to which a key was attached. Taking 
a pair of scissors out of her pocket she cut the 
ribbon, and with the key in her hand went into the 
kitchen. 

She opened the drawer of the bureau, and pull- 
ing out the old stocking, opened it, and spread the 
contents of a small gingham bag on the top of the 
dresser. 


JILL. 


91 


Jill, by care and management, had collected be* 
tween four and five pounds. There were three 
sovereigns, a half-sovereign, some silver, and some 
coppers in the bag. Besides this there was a little 
parcel wrapped up carefully in tissue paper, and 
brown paper over it. Poll opened this, and saw 
that it contained five bright-looking sovereigns. 

“ I didn’t know Jill was so rich,” she murmured, 
“ It’s a good thing; she’ll have somewhat to fur- 
nish her house with. Now, how little can I do 
with ? A sovereign and ten shilling’s worth of 
silver. That will be ’eaps. Oh, my gel, I wouldn’t 
rob you of a penny ef I could help it, but you are 
the last to grudge it to me.” 

She returned the rest of the money to the old 
stocking, and shut the drawer. Then she con- 
sidered what sort of note she should write to Jill. 
It must be brief, for time was passing. It must 
also be brief because poor Poll was a very bad 
scribe. 

She found a sheet of thin paper, and dipping a 
rusty pen into a penny bottle of ink, scribbled a 
few words. 

‘‘ Dear Jill ., — 

“ This is to say as Til come hack again when 


92 


JILL. 


I'm cured. I'll ha' no pain when I come hach., my 
gel., §0 you make yourself 'appy. I 'as tooh one 
pound in gold., and ten shillings in silver out of the 
old stocking. 

“ Tour Mother. 

“ Tell Nat as I ^as my eye on 'im^ and according 
as he deals with you., according will I think on him." 

Poll left tke letter open on the top of the 
bureau; then she went back for a moment into the 
inner room. 

Jill was lying fast asleep. Poll bent over her, 
with a long, hungry gaze. She stooped her head, 
and. lightly, very lightly, kissed the young girl on 
her forehead. 

“ Mother,” murmured Jill in her sleep ; “ oh, 
poor mother ! oh, poor mother ! ” 

A look of pain came over her face ; she turned 
away with a profound and even careworn sigh. 

“ My gel I ” responded Poll. “ Oh, yes, it’s best 
and right for me to go.”’ 

Instead of dressing herself in her usual pictur- 
esque fashion, with a colored apron and gay turban. 
Poll put on a gray shawl, and a dowdy, old-fash- 
ioned bonnet of rusty^black lace. She tied up he^* 


JILL. 9.5 

other clothes iii a big handkerchief, and without 
again glancing at her daughter left the room. 

A moment later she was in the street. She had 
not troubled herself to give the boys a farewell 
look. In the intense pain of the other parting she 
had forgotten their very existence. ' 

A few moments after she had left the house, the 
clock from the neighboring church struck four. 
Jill often awoke at four o’clock, but this morning 
she slept on, quite oblivious of the passing of time. 

Not so, however, one of the occupants of the 
press-bed in the kitchen. This small person 
opened his ferrety blue eyes, wriggled his freckled 
face above the bed-clothes, and darted a quick, sly 
glance round the apartment. 

Oh, jiminy ! ” he murmured, “ I 'ope as Bob 
won’t wake till I ’as done it. Oh, my eyes and 
stars ! what a chance is here.” 

He crept quietly out of bed, and with the light 
agile movements of a little cat went across the 
kitchen. He reached the bureau, and bending 
down pulled the drawer open, which contained 
Jill’s hard-earned savings^ 

Tom was a little person who possessed neither 
conscience nor fear. He soon emptied the con- 


94 


JILL. 


tents of the stocking into his eager little palm. 
The brown paper parcel which contained Nat’s 
five sovereigns was clutched in his other haud. 
He then ran across the room, slipped the coins 
into his trousers’ pockets, put his trousers on, and 
returned to the bureau. 

His mother’s letter wide open and exposed to 
the view of all who cared to read attracted his 
attention. Thanks to the board school which he 
attended Tom could both read and write. He 
soon acquainted himself with the contents of the 
letter, and murmuring “ jiminy !” once again 
under his breath, went up to the bed where Bob 
still sleptv 

Tom stood on one leg, and contemplated Bob’s 
sleeping face with its upturned nose, and its thick 
crop of freckles, for half a minute. Then taking 
up an old shoe, he flung it at the sleeper, and 
awaited the result. 

Bob started up with a howl. 

“ Hold your noise this minute,” said Tom, falling 
upon Bob, and half throttling him. “ Hold your 
noise, and I’ll tell yer some’at. See here. Bob, I ha’ 
got some swag, and ef you make a row Jill ’ull 
hear us.” 


JILL. 


95 


. The word swag ” had a magical effect on Bob. 
He stopped crying, wiped his dirty face, and looked 
at his brother with a world of wonder and desire 
lighting up each insignificant feature. 

“ Oh, my word, Tom,” he said, “ is it ginger- 
bread ? ” 

“ Gingerbread ! ” echoed Tom, in a voice of 
scorn. “ You see yere. Ef you split I’ll split you. 
Yere, ain’t this prime ? ” 

Tom thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and 
pulling out his store of gold and silver, spread his 
treasures on the bed. Bob’s eyes began to glitter, 
and his face turned white. 

“ Oh, Tom,” he gasped, “ you’re a thief.” 

“I ain’t,” said Tom. “It’s Jill’s, and what’s 
Jill’s is mine. Ain’t I her brother ? Think on 
her saving it all up, and us being pinched and 
’arf starved. Mean, I calls it, despert mean. 
Well, she can save some more. She ain’t never 
goin’ to see this swag again.” 

Bob began slowly and cautiously to wriggle him- 
self out of bed. He slipped on his trousers and his 
little jacket with trembling haste. 

“ Are we to be pals in it ? ” he said, looking at 
Tom. “ Ef I don’t split, are we to go pals ? ” 


96 


JtLl. 


“ I don’t mind givin’ yer some on it,” said Tom. 
“ But pals — that means ’arf and ’arf— no thank 
yer, young ’un. 

Bob edged himself between Tom and the door of 
the room. 

“ Look yere,” he said, “ ef yer don’t go ’arf. I’ll 
screech out, and Jill ’ll come. I’m atween you and 
the door, and I’ll screech orful loud, and Jill ’ull 
come afore you gits down-stairs, so now you knows. 
Its ’arf the swag with me, or it’s none.” 

Tom’s eyes shot forth little rays of wrath, but he 
knew that Bob had a queer obstinate tenacity of his 
own, and he thought it best to humor him. 

“ All right,” he said, “ don’t screech. We’ll go 
pals. ’Spose as we runs away.” 

“ I ’ates that book shop,” said Bob. 

“ And I’m run to death by the Boy Messenger 
Company,” said Tom in a gloomy voice. ’Spose 
we goes to sea, Bob.” 

“ ’Spose we does,” said Bob, with a little yelp. 

“ ‘ A life on the rolling wave’ — oh, my stars, 
won’t it be fine ? ” 

“ Mother has run away too,” said Tom. “ There’s 
her letter on the top of the dresser. It Avas seeing 
her helping herself out of the stocking as put me 


JILL. 


97 


up to it. She took some of the money, and she left 
the key in the drawer ; that’s how I come by this 
jolly find. You read her letter, Bob.” 

Bob did so, with his eyes glittering. 

“ I say,” he exclaimed, “ yere is a jolly go, I ha‘ 
got a stuff in my pocket, a kind of new sort of 
Indy rubber wot rubs out writing. I say, Tom, 
let’s put the whole of it on mother.” 

“ The whole of wot ? Wot do yer mean ? ” 

“ She says she has took thirty shillings. Let’s 
rub out them words, and put as she took all that 
wor in the stocking. Then the perlice won’t be 
a’ ter us, and we can go off to sea without no one 
a-finding of us out.” 

Tom reflected over Bob’s words of wisdom, and 
finally decided that his plan was worth adopting. 
While Jill still slept, the wicked clever, little fingers 
erased a portion of Poll’s letter, and added the 
words instead, “ I has took all the money you has 
hoarded away in the old stocking. I know you 
won’t grudge it.” 

7 


98 


JILL. 


0 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Jill awoke presentlyy rubbed her eyes and sat 
up in bed. A sensation of gladness was all over her, 
but she could not at first understand what it meant. 
Her sleep had been so strong and dreamless that 
the remembrance of her engagement to Nat Carter 
did not in the first moment of waking return to 
her. 

Then she remembered it. She gave a leap of 
pure joy and sprang lightly out of bed. Having 
diessed herself neatly she stood for a moment by 
the window of her little room. Thankfulness was 
filling her whole nature* She felt so young, so 
joyous, that it was a delight to her even to be alive;. 
She looked up into the cloudless summer sky and 
said aloud, 

“ I don’t know nothink ’bout the ways o’ good 
folks, but they say that they b’lieve in Some one 
up there. They call Him God. Ef there is a God 
I thank Him with my whole heart this morning. 


SiLl. 


90 


God up in the sky, ef you’re there, do you hear 
me ? Jill thanks yer with her whole heart to- 
day.” 

A faint dimness came over the girl’s bright eyes ; 
she put up her hand to wipe it away, and then 
went into the kitchen. 

Poll, of course, had gone to buy some flowers in 
the early market. She might be back at any 
moment. 

Jill bustled about to prepare breakfast. She did 
not go near the dresser, which stood in one corner 
of the little room and was never used to hold cups 
and saucers or any implements of cookery. Jill’s 
mind was so pre-occupied that she did not even 
observe the boys’ absence. 

At last, however, the breakfast was ready. The 
coarse cups and saucers were placed on the little 
table, the coffee stood on the hob of the bright 
little stove. The bread and a plate of dripping 
were placed also on the table. 

It was almost time for Poll to have returned, 
Jill expected each moment to hear her footstep in 
the passage. She sat down to wait for her, and at 
last remembering her brothers, turned to the press 
bedstead to tell them to get up. The bedstead 


ioo 


JILL. 


was empty. The bed was tossed and tumbled ; no 
boys were to be seen there. Jill felt a passing 
wonder at their having gone away without break- 
fast, but they were always erratic in their move- 
ments, and her mind was too pre-occupied with 
other thoughts for her to trouble herself long about 
them. 

After waiting a moment or so longer she ate her 
own breakfast, for she reflected that if for any rea- 
son her mother was detained in the market she 
would have to go out to buy flowers to replenish 
her basket herself. 

Having eaten she went into her bedroom to put 
on her apron and turban, and now neatly dressed 
she came back into the kitchen, and taking up her 
flower-basket, was preparing to leave the room, 
when she suddenly remembered that her pockets 
were destitute of money. She had really earned 
nothing the day before ; she must therefore draw 
upon her little savings to replenish her basket this 
morning. 

The thought gave her a faint passing annoyance, 
for she did not like to deduct even a penny from 
the money which would be so useful to Nat and 
herself when they started housekeeping. 


JILL. 


101 


There was no help for it, however, and she put 
her hand inside her dress to feel for the blue rib- 
bon which held the precious little key of the bu- 
reau. The ribbon camo out easily enough, but 
Jill started and felt herself turning pale when she 
saw that there was no key attached to it. Her 
eyes grew big with a sudden fear. 

What had become of the key ? The ribbon 
looked as if it had been cut. Who could possibly 
have done this ? No one. The ribbon must have 
got thin and worn without Jill knowing it. The 
key must have dropped off. Where had she lost 
it ? How very unpleasant if she was forced to 
burst open the drawer of the bureau ! 

Then she remembered that she had the key last 
night when she opened the drawer to put the five 
sovereigns Nat had given her to take care of for 
his pal into the old stocking. She certainly had 
the key then — it must therefore be somewhere in 
the house. 

She went back into her bedroom and searched on 
the floor and in the bed ; she could not find it and 
returned to the kitchen with a puzzled, anxious 
expression on her face. 

Then she gave a cry of delight and made a leap 


102 


JILL. 


forv^^rd — the key was in the lock of the drawer. 
How careless of her to have left it there ! and yet 
she was glad now, for no harm could possibly have 
happened, as no one but herself and her mother 
knew that she kept money in the drawer. 

She went on her knees, pulled it open, and taking 
up the old stocking unrolled it. Her own savings, 
amounting to nearly five pounds, were kept in a 
tiny gingham bag — the money Nat had given her 
was in a neat paper roll. The bag was there flat 
and empty — the roll had also disappeared. 

Jill felt herself turning queer, sick and faint ; 
she could not possibly believe that the money was 
gone ; she felt certain at first that in some way 
these carefully hoarded savings must have slipped 
out of the bag, that the roll of paper must be hid- 
ing in another part of the drawer. 

It was a game of “ Hide and Seek ” — a cruel 
game between this money and a girl’s troubled, 
anxious heart. She searched the drawer from end 
to end; it contained some neatly-made aprons, 
some stockings, and a few other garments. The 
contents were quickly searched through, Jill rose 
to her feet — she was white and tottering, but she 
had not as yet reached the stage of believing that 
the money was gone. 


JILL. 


103 


She still thought that it was playing that 
hideous game of “ Hide and Seek.” She placed 
her hand against her .heart and leant against the 
bureau. There was nothing for her but to go on 
seeking for the treasui*e so securely hidden ; but 
where now should she look ? 

. She stood still, trying her best to think. Sud- 
denly her eyes rested on the open sheet of thin 
poor letter-paper which contained her mother’s 
badly- written words. 

Jill started violently at the sight. She bent 
forward and tried to read the handwriting. Her 
sight was excellent, but just for a moment she 
could not see the words in the letter; then she 
read them: i 

“ Bear Jills — This is to say as Fll come hack 
again when Tm cured 

What did that mean — Jill rubbed her eyes until 
they smarted — “ Mother will come back again 
when she’s cured ” ? She read the next sentence ; 

“ Z’Z? Aa’ no pain when I come hack., my gel., so 
you make yerself 'appy'' 

“ Oh, poor mother, poor mother ! ” exclaimed Jill. 

She looked again at the letter and read the last 
sentence; 


lOi 


JILL. 


‘‘ I has took all the money you has hoarded away 
in the old stocking. I know you wonH grudge it.""' 

Jill clasped her hands to her head; it reeled; 
she thought she should have fallen, but making a 
great effort, she tottered to a chair which stood 
near and sat down. 

For several minutes she could not realize what 
had happened. Then the simple facts of the case 
came slowly home to her. The old stocking was 
empty. The money which Jill had taken nearly 
eighteen months to save — penny by penny and 
sixpence by sixpence — ^had vanished. But that 
was not the worst — ^that fact was bad, very bad, 
but it dwindled into insignificance beside the 
much more appalling fact that the five pounds 
which belonged to Nat’s pal had also disappeared. 
Nat, her lover, had trusted her with this money — 
he had feared to keep it himself — he had believed 
it possible that some one might steal it, and he had 
given it to Jill for absolute security. She remem- 
bered, as she sat numbed and still on that chair, 
into which she had thrown herself, the look in 
Nat’s eyes when he had spoken about giving her 
the money to keep safely for his pal. 

The expression of trust, of confidence, of relief 


JILL. 


105 


could not have been greater on Nat’s open, honest 
face had he taken that money to the Bank of Eng- 
land. Jill represented the Bank of England for 
trustworthiness, for security to Nat. 

“ He trusted me,” she moaned ; “ he trusted me. 
Oh, mother, mother ! what shall I do ? Oh, 
mother, what have you done to the Jill whom you 
love?” 

The poor girl felt that she could not keep still 
any longer. 

By what possible means was she to get the money 
back? She must recover it — she must rescue it 
before her mother had spent it all. She rose and 
went hurriedly out. Her head was in a whirl, her 
usual clear judgment had, for the time, forsaken 
her. She, the upright, the respectable Jill, was 
penniless ; but that was not the worst — she felt 
herself, in a measure, a thief, for through her Nat’s 
money had vanished. 

Going downstairs she met old Mrs. Stanley, who 
stopped her to utter a pleasant “ Good-morning.” 

“ What is it, Jill ?” said the old woman, startled 
by the queer, strange look on the girl’s face. 
“ What’s the matter, dearie ? you don’t look your- 
self.” 


106 


JILL. 


“ I’m a bit anxious,” said Jill. “ Mother’s not 
quite well, and I — I’m going out. Ef any one 
calls and arsks arter me, you say as I’ll may be — 
be out all day, Mrs. Stanley.” 

“ Yes, my love. I’ll say it.” The old woman looked 
at her longingly ; words came to her lips which 
she felt a strange desire to utter. While she hesi- 
tated, however, Jill had run quickly downstairs, 
and was lost to view. 

Her empty basket hung on her arm. As she 
walked through the streets in the early summer 
morning a neighboring . clock struck six. She 
was still in very good time to get a supply of 
flowers for her basket. This was the height of the 
flower season. Flowers of all sorts were abundant 
and cheap. Jill was a regular customer too, and 
she knew more than one flower merchant who 
would give her a good selection of flowers even if 
she were a little late in going to buy them. 

She passed through the ugly neighborhood of 
Drury Lane, and taking a short cut for the Strand 
found herself in Bedford Street. 

She was close now to the market, and here she 
paused to consider what she should really do. 

She had no money in her pocket, but this fact 


JILL. 


107 


did not greatly trouble her, for she could easily go 
on tick for some flowers until the following morn- 
ing. There was more than one flower merchant 
who would gladly fill the pretty girl’s basket for 
the sake of a smile, a shy “ thank you,” and a look 
of gratitude in tliose lovely dark eyes. The fact 
that she was absolutely penniless was not, there- 
fore, Jill’s trouble. 

No ! she had something far more important to 
think over. 

Should she waste time at all to-day trying to sell 
flowers ? Would it not be better for her to spend 
the long hours of this summer day looking for 
her mother? If she found her mother she could 
easily induce her to give back Nat’s five sovereigns. 
As for her own savings, they were of small con- 
sequence. 

When she was about half-way up Bedford Street, 
Jill stood still to carefully consider her plans. 

A heavy blow had been dealt at her, dealt at 
her, too, when the radiant sun of happiness was 
shining through all her being. She had been 
stunned for a little, but now her vigorous young 
brain was capable once more of taking in the whole 
situation. 


108 


JILL. 


She decided after a very brief pause that she 
would go to the market and buy enough flowers 
to stock her basket with ; she would then go to 
her usual stand outside the Metropolitan Railway 
Station and sell the flowers as quickly as possible. 
Thus she would provide herself with a little ready 
money. She could pay back her debt for the 
flowers with part of this money, and spend the 
rest of it in looking for her mother. 

To-day was Friday, and Nat had told her that 
he was scarcely likely to see her again before 
Saturday evening. She had, therefore, this much 
breathing time, either to recover the money, or to 
make up her mind what to say to Nat. 

When this definite plan of action made itself 
plain to her, her brow cleared and she quickened 
her steps to reach the market. She soon found 
herself under the great glass dome where the 
flowers were sold, and in a moment was standing 
by a stall, waiting for her turn to be served. 

The extreme bustle and movement of the market 
was almost at its height when she arrived. An 
eager hum of busy voices pervaded the place. 
The merchants were busy, not only selling their 
flowers, but eating excellent breakfasts of coffee, 


Jill, 


109 


poached eggs, bacon, and other delicacies, which 
were supplied to them by waiters from neighboring 
restaurants. 

The strong perfume of the flowers, and the heat, 
which, early as it was, was beginning to be felt 
through the glass roof, would have made the place 
almost intolerable to any one less acclimatized to 
this sort of thing than Jill. 

Some of the flower-girls looked already spent 
and tired. They were, for the most part, an 
unkempt-looking lot, their hair untidy, their dress 
exhibiting the extreme of dowdiness ; the shabbiest 
hats adorned their rough heads ; old shawls, greasy 
with wear, and dull from long exposure to weather, 
protected their ample shoulders. Their dresses 
were almost ragged, their feet slipshod and untidy. 

Youth was a misnomer for most of them, and 
beauty was not to be found in their ranks. They 
knew good flowers, however, and chaffered eagerly, 
and conducted their marketing on the most ap- 
proved business principles. 

Jill was such a contrast to the other flower-girls 
— her beauty was so remarkable, her dress so 
picturesque as she stood under one of the big 
palm-trees, that she resembled a tropical flower 


110 


Jill. 


herself. She was looked at with envy by one or 
two of the girls, and mth marked admiration by 
several young costermongers, who would have 
given a good deal for a nod or smile from so lovely 
a girl. 

As a rule, she had a pleasant, friendly way 
with her, never allowing familiarities, but taking 
good-natured badinage and jest in the spirit in 
which they were meant. 

To-day, however, she saw none of the faces, 
heard none of the comments, returned none of the 
murmured greetings. 

She waited for her turn to be served, as motionless 
almost as a statue, and it was not until a rather 
rough voice sounded in her ears that she awoke to 
the full difficulties of her present position. 

“ Can I sarve you, miss ? ” said a flower merchant. 
“ I ’as got some beautiful rose-buds this morning, 
and a great supply of water-lilies. You come 
and see ’em, they’re just your style.” 

This flower merchant’s name was Silas Lynn. 
He was a heavily built man, with a powerful 
face, a rough shock of hair, and small, deeply-set 
eyes. His mouth was coarse, his hands and feet 
enormous. He owned a cottage and a couple of 


JILL. 


Ill 


acres of ground in Kent, and brought his flowers 
and fruit daily to the market, transacting all his 
business himself, and allowing no middleman to 
interfere with him. 

Silas had a voice which exactly matched his 
appearance. It was so rough and harsh that it 
absolutely militated against his business ; the more 
timid of the flower-girls preferring to carry their 
pence and shillings to quarters where they would 
be sure of civil treatment. 

One or two people who knew him very well 
indeed, made the queer remark, however, that 
Silas, when bending over his favorite flowers had 
been heard to speak softly ; that when he lifted the 
young leaves, and looked into the lovely blossoms, 
a mild sort of tender sunshine would suffuse his 
rough face. 

These reports of him had been whispered by a 
few, but they were not generally believed. He 
was strictly honest, sober, industrious, but hard 
as a nail p a man who looked for no quarter, and 
gave none. 

This he fully believed to be his own character, 
and his neighbors and friends supported him in 


112 


JILL, 


the belief. It was from this man, however, that 
Jill had resolved to ask a favor. 

When he desired her to come and look at his 
lilies, she went quietly with him to a back part of 
his stall, where the great, white waxy lilies were 
lying in a tank which he had provided for the 
purpose. 

“ I has had a good morning’s work,” said Silas, 
rubbing his hands, and turning aside for a moment 
to swallow down a great cupful of scalding coffee. 
“ Ah, there ain’t nothing like doing your business 
yourself, and trusting your affairs to no one else. 
That’s my way. I larnt it from my mother. 
Wot’s the matter, lass ? You look peaky.” 

“I’m a bit tired,” said Jill. 

“ And a bit late, too, I guess. Get out of this, 
this moment, you varmint, or I’ll break every bone 
in your body ! ” These last words were thundered 
at a small ragamuffin of ten, who had been loafing 
round but now took to his heels as if pursued by 
demons. “ You’re a bit late,” continued Silas, 
allowing his small eyes to rest upon Jill, with the 
sort of pleased satisfaction with which he regarded 
what he was fond of calling a “ thoroughbred 
rose-bud.” “ I don’t see you nor that mother of 


Jill, 113 

yourn often round as late as this, but now, how 
can I sarve ye ? ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Silas Lynn,” exclaimed Jill, clasping 
her hands, and speaking in swift entreaty, “ ef you 
would give me jest a few flowers to put in my 
basket, and let me pay for ’em to-morrow morning.” 

Lynn indulged in a loud laugh of astonishment, 
perplexity, and pleasure. He was as hard as a nail 
to be sure, but he did not object to lending Jill 
some flowers. 

“ I’ll lend ’em with pleasure,” he said ; “ but you 
s’prise me, Jill Robinson, I thought as you had a 
tidy lot of money put away.” 

‘‘ So I had,” answered Jill, her lips beginning 
to quiver ; “ I had yesterday, but not this morning. 
AVhen I looked for the money this morning, it wor 
gone.” 

“ Stolen^ does yer mean ? ” 

“ No, no ; nothing o’ the sort — I can’t speaR o’ 
it. Will yer lend me a few flowers, and let me 
go?” 

“ Gimme yer basket.” 

Silas pulled it roughly out of the girl’s hand. 
He laid some wet grass in one corner, and arranged 

a pile of lilies on it ; rose-buds, white, pink, cream- 

8 


114 


Jill. 


colored, followed.; geraniums in every shade made 
up a brilliant bank in another corner. Masses 
of poppies filled the remaining space. 

Silas had a knack of arranging flowers which 
could only be excelled by Jill herself. His great 
hands could touch the tiniest blossoms with a rare 
taste and a skill which produced surprising results. 

“ There ! ” he said, suddenly. “ I forgot the 
carnations ! We’ll pop in a bunch here ; they are 
wonderful for sweetness ; they mind me o’ my 
mother. She had all their little ways. I’d like to 
tell yer about her some day. Yere’s the baskit, 
and good luck to you ! You’re a tidy lass— the 
only tidy one as comes to the market, and It’s a 
pleasure to see, ye with the bits of flowers.” 

“ But,” said Jill, coloring and trembling, for 
sore as her heart was it could not help going out 
to such a basket of beauty, ‘V I didn’t mean to have 
flowers like these. Why, there’s a sight more nor a 
guinea’s worth yere. ; and I only meant to have two 
or three shillings’ worth o’ the commoner sorts — 
poppies, and sich like. I can make up field pop- 
pies and grasses to look wonderful, and I could sell 
’em off quick, for the ladies like ’em for those new 
sort of heart drorin’-rooms as is all the go.” 


JILL. 


115 


“ Heart drorin’-rooms ? ” queried Silas. “ My 
word, what are they ? ” 

“ I don’t know, but they are all the rage. Heart 
drorin’-rooms and heart dresses. You heai*s of ’em 
iverywhere.” 

“ Well, there’s a heart baskit,” said Silas, with a 
harsh laugh, which was partly caused by a sudden 
embarrassment which came over him. “You take 
it, and go.” 

“But I can’t, really. I could never pay it 
back.” 

“You’re not meant to — it’s a gift.” 

“ A gift, Mr. Lynn ? ” 

Jill raised her eyes, looked him full in the face, 
read a meaning in his awkward glance, and pushed 
the basket of lovely flowers away. 

“ I can’t take it,” she said, “ not as a gift ; no, 
that worn’t my thought. Thank yer all the same.” 
She began, with hands that shook, to replace the 
masses of flowers on the flower merchant’s stall. 

In a moment she found her two hands im- 
prisoned. 

“ Don’t do it,” said Silas, in a voice of low thun- 
der. “ Ef you touch ’em I’ll fling ’em on the re- 
fuse heap out there.. Pay me, ef you will, but take 


116 


JILL. 


the basket and go. And listen first : Jill Robin- 
son ! What do you think them flowers are worth 
to me ? I’d give every flower on this stall for one 
kiss from your red lips. So now you know the 
mind of Silas Lynn. I’ve a rough voice, and a 
rough look, but my heart's leal. Now you know 
my mind, so you can go, lass.” 

The man almost pushed her away, and the next 
moment his stentorian voice was heard, shouting 
savagely at some timid customers who had ap- 
peared on the scene. , . 



« 


JILL, 


117 


CHAPTER IX. 

Jill had a very successful morning with her 
flowers ; they were the envy and admiration of all 
the other flower women. Even Molly Maloney 
felt as if she must indulge in a fit of crossness when 
she saw those water-lilies, carnations, and rosebuds. 
But there was something in Jill’s face which soon 
made the other women cease to feel unkindly to- 
wards her. Trouble was new to Jill, and the 
frightened, half-pathetic, half-despairing expression 
of her full, velvety brown eyes gave the flower-girls, 
who came to talk to her and to admire her basket, 
a queer sensation. They were curious, but their 
curiosity was not likely to be gratified by Jill. 
Even to Molly Maloney she scarcely vouchsafed a 
word of explanation. 

“ I’m in a bit of worry about mother,” she said 
once, in a low whisper. “ Don’t speak on it, Molly ; 
it’ll pass, no doubt. You ain’t seen mother this 


]18 


JILL, 


morning, ha’ you ? She han’t chanced to call round 
to ask arter Kathleen ? ” 

“ No,” replied Molly ; “ and, ef she did, I 
wouldn’t dare to let her in. Kathleen’s down with 
faver, and no mistake. I’m at my best to keep it 
from the neighbors, for, ef they knew, one o’ them 
’specters would come round and carry the poor chile 
off to the hospital. Oh ! worra me, worra me ! it’s 
a weary world, and no mistake.” 

Jill said some words of sympathy. She was 
fond of pretty little Irish Kathleen, and, taking a 
choice rosebud and carnation out of her basket, she 
gave them to Molly to take home to the child. 

“ Tell her they’re from Jill,” she said, “ and I’ll 
look round to-morrow, may be, or may be Sun- 
day.” 

“You ain’t ’feared o’ the faver, then, honey? ” 

“No. Why should I be? It isn’t sickness as 
frights me.” 

“You have a throuble, then, honey.” 

“ I’m fretted about mother, Mrs. Maloney. She 
ain’t well, and it frets me. She’s more than any- 
body to me, mother is. I’ve sold most of my 
flowers now, so I’ll go. Good-afternoon to yer, 
Molly.” 


JILL. 


119 


Jill took up her basket and^ walked away. She 
spent all the rest of the day going fi’om one low 
haunt to another, looking in vain for Mrs. Robin- 
son. It did not occur to her to seek for her mother 
at Betsy Peters’, but, on her way back to their own 
little flat, she ran up against Betsy, who stopped 
her at once to ask about Poll. 

‘‘ She wor werry bad last night,” explained Betsy, 
and then she told of the incident which had oc- 
curred at the chemist’s shop. 

“I thought I’d call round and ask arter her to- 
day,” said Betsy. “ Her looks frighted me, and 
she’s real bad — real bad, Jill Robinson. The 
chemist knows, and so do I, what ails her.” 

“ It’s more nor I do,” said Jill, drawing herself 
up. For a brief instant she feared that Mrs. Peters 
was referring to Poll’s unfortunate habit of taking 
more than was good for her. Jill’s black eyes 
flashed, and poor, meek, pale-faced Betsy started 
back a step in alarm. 

“I don’t mean nothink bad, dearie,” she said. 
“ It’s the heavy hand of the Lord that’s laid on your 
mother. She ought to go to a hospital. I don’t 
hold by ’em in most cas^s, but yer mother ought 
to go.” 


120 


JILL. 


Jill felt herself turning very pale. “ What do 
yer mean?” she said. 

The woman stepped forward and whispered a 
word in her ear. The ugly sound caused her to 
reel for a moment, a faint dizziness came over her, 
she clutched Mrs. Peters by the shoulder to keep 
herself from falling. 

Don’t take on, lovey,” said the women. “ It’s 
the will o’ the Lord. There’s no goin’ agen’ Him, 
Jill. 

‘ His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour, 

The bud will have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower.’ ” 

‘‘Don’t talk cant,” said Jill. “ Mother’s bad, ef 
what you say is true. She has got something orful 
the matter, and you tell me it’s the will of God, 
and you folks wot b’lieve in God talk o’ Him as 
good and kind. Ef God is good and kind, then it 
ain’t His will as mother should suffer erful things 
sech as you tell on. I b’lieve there’s a devil some- 
where, and he does the had things. It ain’t God. 
I’d scorn to think it o’ any one so beautiful as 
He.” 

The girl’s indignant words rang out on the 
evening air. Mrs. Peters thought them blasphemy, 


JILL, 


121 


and clasped her thin hands in horror. Jill turned 
to leave her. She went back to the empty flat, and 
sat down in the old arm-chair where her mother 
had so often tried to rest. 

It seemed to Jill that at last she had got at the 
meaning of her mother’s sudden departure. Poll 
had gone away because Jill must not see her pains. 
Jill must not see them ! Jill ! who loved her with 
that passion which comes now and then to a daugh- 
ter for a mother, which now and then is almost 
the strongest passion of life. 

In that moment of agony Jill thought far more 
of her mother than she did of Nat. She loved Nat 
intensely, but just then the aching emptiness with- 
in her was caused entirely by Poll’s absence. 

She had never been angry with her mother for 
taking, as she supposed, all the savings out of the 
old stocking. Her one desire now was to shelter 
her mother. Jill had always stood between Poll 
and the censorious world. Jill had always under* 
stood why Poll must drink now and then ; now 
it seemed to her that she also understood why the 
savings must go. 

“ I must find mother again,” she said to herself, 
after a pause. “ I must, and I will ; but, first of 


122 


JILL. 


all, I ha’ got to give Nat back the five sovereigns 
as he gave me to take care on for his pal. There 
can be no marrying a’ tween us until mother’s found, 
and the money given back to Nat.” 

Jill spread her day’s earnings on her lap. She 
found that she had fifteen shillings, and had still a 
sufficient number of unsold flowers in her basket 
to give her, with a very few additions, sufficient 
material for to-morrow’s work. She had spent the 
greater part of an hour in the empty kitchen when 
there came a brisk knock at the door. She started 
at the sound, and went with some slight hesitation 
to open it. Nat might possibly be waiting out- 
side. She longed to throw herself into his arms, 
and yet she dreaded seeing him. The knock was 
repeated. She opened the door, to see Susy Carter 
standing outside. 

“ It’s me,” she said, in her brisk way. . “ May I 
conie in ? My word, ain’t it hot ! ” 

She entered the kitchen at once, and, taking a 
handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her heated 
face. 

“ I thought maybe you’d be having tea,” she 
said. “ I’d be glad of a cup. Ain’t your mother 
in yet ? ” , 


JILL. 


123 


“ No, Susy.” Jill filled the kettle as she spoke, 
and, turning on the gas, set it on the little stove to 
boil. “ You shall have a cup of tea as soon as ever 
I can get it ready, Susy.” 

“ You don’t look spry,” said Susy. “ Wot’s up 
with you? Has you and Nat had a quarrel ? ” 

“No. How dare you say it ? ” Jill’s eyes flashed 
with anger. 

“ Oh, highty-tighty ! What a fly-away young 
madam it is ! ” said Susy, with her shrill laugh. 
“ Well, Jill, I meant no offence. You look down- 
hearted, somehow ; and, of course, a gel don’t ex- 
pect to see that on the face of another gel wot’s 
just gone and engaged herself to her brother. It’s 
but natrel to see smiles on yer face, Jill, and to 
hear you joking and laughing. I joke orful when 
I’m happy, there’s nothing like a good joke for 
making time pass.” 

“ Well, I’m happy enough,” said Jill. “ Who 
said I wasn’t ? It ain’t my way to take my happi- 
ness all sparklin’ and fizzin’. I like sit quiet best.” 

“ You’re in great luck to have got Nat,” continued 
Susy. “ Ef I was another sort, I’d be in a rage 
of jealousy, hut that ain’t me. Nat’s safe to rise, 
and get on in the costering line ; and he has saved 


124 


JILL. 


a good little bit of money, too, and put it away in 
the Savings’ Bank, ef I am not much mistook. 
Nat’s close, when he likes, and so I tell him. I 
like him all the better for it. I ’ates people as 
wears their hearts on their sleeve, and tell all about 
their money matters, and so forth. I’m close my- 
self, and inclined to be saving, and so will Nat be 
ef you’ll let him, Jill.” 

“ Who says I won’t let him ? ” retorted Jill. 
She spoke almost pettishly ; her voice had com- 
pletely lost its usual sweetness. Susy was never a 
congenial companion to Jill, and to-night she 
rubbed her the wrong way with each word she ut- 
tered. 

“ I’m not saying nothing,” replied Susy, nod- 
ding her pretty fair head. “ But deeds speak a sight 
louder nor words, and wot I want to know is this— 
why you and Nat has made up yer mind to take all 
them heaps of rooms downstairs ? It’s the height 
of folly, and that you know, Jill.” 

“ No, I don’t ; but I know something else,” 
replied Jill. 

“Wot? My word! you’ll spill that boiling 
water on the table-cloth ei yoM don’t look out. W ot 
do you know, Jill ? ” 


JiLL. 125 

‘‘ That Nat and me can manage our own affairs, 
ef we are let,” answered Jill. 

“ Oh, dearie me ! now you’re turning sulky. I 
must let Nat know as the pretty little dear has got 
a temper of her own. But, speakin’ serious, Jill, 
hadn’t we better strike that bargain while we are 
about it?” 

“ Wot bargain? ” 

“ Me to have the best bedroom, and the run of 
the kitchen, for arf-a-crown a week. Come now, 
it’s only common prudence to say yes.” 

Jill sat down wearily, and dropped her hands to 
her sides. She had supplied Susy with tea, and 
bread and butter, and a substantial slice of cold 
pork-pie, but she could not touch any food her- 
self. 

“ Nat must decide,” she said. “It’s Nat’s affair, 
it ain’t mine. It’s for him to decide.” 

“ He says t’other way,” said Susy, with a pout. 
“ I bothered him this morning for a good while, 
and he said it was for you to say. Fact is, Jill, 
you can turn Nat round your little finger. He’ll 
do nothing agen you, ef it was ever so little.” 

“ Well, well. I’ll let you know presently,” said 
Jill. “ I has a headache to-night, and I am tired.” 


126 


JILL, 


“ But it won’t tire you any worse jest to say 
yes. I’m in a choky, nasty room now, and I want 
to give notice to quit. Ef you say ‘ Yes ’ to-night, 
I can give a week’s notice on Monday, and then I 
can move in yere Monday week. Nat ’ll keep my 
bits of things in his room, and you’d give me a 
shake-down till you was married, wouldn’t you, 
Jill ? Say yes, now do, dearie.” 

“ I can’t say nothing for certain, Susy. Nat and 
me, we ain’t married yet. Ef we marry, I suppose 
you’re welcome to the room. I can’t say no 
more.” 

“ And you ’as said ’eaps, and I’m much obleeged,” 
said Susy, springing from her chair, running up to 
Jill, and giving her a hearty embrace. “ I’ll jest 
snap my fingers in my landlady’s face, come Mon- 
day. You’re a good sort, Jill, and a real out and 
out beauty. I don’t wonder Nat’s took with you. 
Now, I suppose, I had better go. Poor Nat ! he 
were in a bit of trouble this morning, for all he’s 
in such delight at your promising to wed him.” 

“ Nat in trouble ! ” said Jill, starting up, and 
speaking in a voice all animation and pain. “ Wot 
do you mean, Susy ? and why didn’t you tell me 
that afore ? ” 


JILL. 


127 


“ I forgot it. My sakes, what a jumpy sort of 
wife you’ll make ! I doubt ef you and Nat will 
suit. He’s accustomed to me all his days, and I 
never let my feelings get the upper hand in that 
style.” 

“ But wot is he in trouble about, Susy ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s that pal o’ his, Joe Williams.’^ 

“Yes. Wot o’ he?” said Jill. She felt her 
heart beating quickly, for it was Williams’s money 
which Nat had placed in her keeping. 

“He’s dead,” said Susy. “ He died sudden this 
morning. Nat’s orful cut up, for the poor lad has 
left a wife and two or three children. By the way, 
Nat says that he has given you some money of Joe’s 
to keep safe for him.” 

“ So he has,” replied Jill. 

“ You look orful white, Jill. Are you going to 
faint?” 

“ I han’t the least notion of sech a thing.” 

“ Well, you do look queer ! You’re all narves, 
I expect. I wish Nat luck on you, with yerstarty 
ways, and yer changes of color.” 

“ I’m very sorry about Williams,” said Jill, her 
eyes filling with tears. “ I expect it has took Nat 
all on a heap. He set a deal of store on Wil- 
liams.” 


128 


JILL. 


“ He did. But, my sakes, you never knew him, 
Jill ; it ain’t for you to be fretting. It’s a good 
thing you has got the money safe, for ’twill be 
wanted now for the funeral. Nat said as ’twere a 
a load on his mind a-keeping of it, for our rooms 
ain’t safe. We was very onlucky in ’em, and I 
daren’t leave so much as a shilling behind me in 
the morning. I wish our Guild would provide 
rooms for us to sleep in, as well as a place for the 
flowers. Well, I must go now, Jill. I’m obleeged 
for the tea, and the promise of the rooms — the best 
bedroom, mind, when you and Nat is wed. How 
late yer mother is cornin’ ’ome. Good-night 
Jill.” 

Susy took herself off at last, and Jill breathed a 
sigh of relief. She sat up for some little time 
longer, waiting for her brothers ; but presently, 
finding they did not come home, locked the door 
of the little flat and went to bed. She slept 
scarcely at all that night-, and awoke in the morn- 
ing, quite determined with regard to one thing — 
that she must either find her mother before the even- 
ing, or get the five pounds from some one else to 
return to Nat Carter. 

As she was dressing she thought, for the first 


JILL, 


129 


time almost since she had left him, of Silas Lynn. 
She remembered his generosity with regard to the 
flowers. That basket of flowers was really a splen- 
did gift, and, although Jill meant to give him back 
at least ten shillings this morning, she could not 
but own that he had been more than kind to her. 
As to his outspoken words of admiration, she gave 
them very small consideration. She was accus- 
tomed to broad compliments from men of all sorts, 
and mere words made little or no impression on 
her. She thought now, however, with a certain 
little warm comforting thrill of hope, that perhaps 
Silas would be induced to lend her the princely 
sum of five pounds, to be paid back day by day in 
small instalments, until the whole debt was dis- 
charged. 

Silas had been kind to Jill for a long time now, 
and several of the flower-girls had joked her about 
the great, coarse, ugly-looking fellow. If she could 
induce Silas to help her in her present awful dil- 
emma, she felt no service would be too great for 
her to render him. If Silas lent her five pounds, 
she might conceal the knowledge of what her 
mother had done from Nat, and they might be 
married some day, if not at once. 


180 


JILL. 


Jill hastened her toilet when this thought came, 
to comfort her. She snatched up a piece of dry 
bread to eat, instead of breakfast, and, munching 
it as she went, hurried downstairs. She reached 
the market quite an hour earlier than she had done 
on the previous day, and was rewarded at once by 
a broad stare from Silas. His stare was presently 
illuminated by a smile, which ended in a wink, and, 
stretching out one big hand, he beckoned to Jill to 
approach. 

“ I’m going to order breakfast for two,” he said, 
“ and there’s a cosy seat here, under this rose-tree. 
I’ll fill yer basket, my gel, so you nqiedn’t go no 
further. You set there, and take the world easy. 
My word ! you ’mind me o’ my mother more nor 
ever this morning. There’s a waiter over there. 
I’ll call him. Hi, Sam ! You come here this min- 
ute. Now then, I want a rare feed for me and this 
young ’ooman. Wot have you got?” 

“ Kidneys, rashers and heggs, sorsiges, hom- 
lettes,” called the waiter off on his fingers. 

“ Wot’s yer mind ? ” asked Silas, turning to Jill. 
“Have a hegg done to a turn, and a little juicy 
slice of curled up bacon on the top o’ it? And see 
yere, waiter. I’ll have a chump chop, and two 


JILL. 


lai 

heggs and make the coffee strong, wotever you do. 
Now be quick, there’s a good chap.” 

The waiter nodded, grinned, and disappeared. 

When Silas had given orders about his break- 
fast, he turned and looked at Jill with that slow, 
grave smile, which, nevertheless, was sweet enough 
to transform his rough face. 

“ I’m puzzled to know what flower to liken yer 
to,” he said. “ Seems to me may be as you most 
takes arter one o’ they dainty toolips afore they 
comes out into full bloom. Of all flowers under 
the sun, there seems to me to be more in a toolip 
than in any other. For one thing, it comes arter 
the dead, cold winter ; then it’s so prim and yet 
so gay — so proper all round, and yet there’s sech a 
frolicsome look ’bout the little tips o’ the flowers 
jest where they half opens to let in the sunlight 
and the sunshine. Yes, you ’mind me o’ one o’ 
them dark red, rich-looking toolip-buds as come in 
the spring.” 

Jill scarcely replied to these words from Silas. 
She was thinking of the request she was about to 
make him, and wondering in what language she 
could best make known her sore want. She sat 
very still under the large rose-tree where he had 


i32 


JILL, 


placed her, her rich, dark head was slightly bent 
forward, her brown, yet shapely hands were folded 
over her many-colored apron, her olive-tinted face 
was paler than its wont, the thick, heavy fringe of 
eyelashes cast a shadow on her cheek. 

Silas gave her another quick, admiring glance. 

“ She’s a toolip, and a carnation, and a bit of a 
rose-bud all in one,” he murmured under his 
breath. “Never seen her like afore. See how 
quiet she sets, and how little she minds all I says 
to her. She’s hard to win, like one o’ them skit- 
tish colts at home. But why compare her to a 
colt? she’s a flower out an’ out. One o’ they 
cuttings werry precious and hard to strike in 
strange soil. I like her all the better for it. 
There’s breeding in every bit o’ her.” 

“What shall I put in the basket to-day?” he 
continued. “ How did the lilies go ? and did the 
ladies wonder how you come by they choice rose- 
buds?” 

These words roused Jill. 

“ You don’t know what that basket wor,” she 
said ; “ I sold off the flowers as fast as ever I could. 
They were lovely ; there worn’t sech a basket to 
be seen with any other flower-girl.” 


JILL. 


133 


Silas laughed “ Ha, lia.’V He said, “We’ll do 
better’ll that to-day ; I ha’ thought the subjec’ of 
that basket o’ yourn hout and hout. I ha’ planned 
one most cunning for to-day. You leave it to me, 
Jill, I’ll fill it for yer. What do you say to a 
border all round o’ these delicate green ferns, and 
then a row o’ deep crimson carnations, and agen 
’em something white, and then a mass o’ blue 
forget-me-nots, and the centre all roses — every 
sort, cream, white, pink, blush, crimson. Wot 
do yer say to that sort o’ basket, Jill Robinson ?” 

“It ’d be more beautiful than a picter,” said 
Jill, her eyes smiling. “ Oh, Mr. Lynn, what 
lovely thoughts you has ! I can most fancy I see 
that ere basket.” 

“ You leave it to me, and you’ll see it in real 
’arnest,” said Silas. “ Ah, here comes breakfast. 
Now then, Jill, you shall pour out the coffee.” 

Jill stood up at once to perform her ofiice. She 
did it without a scrap of self-consciousness. She 
was quite impervious to the glances of amusement 
which came from many pairs of eyes at the rough- 
looking flower merchant and the handsome girl. 
Her mind was too absorbed with sometliing else to 
notice any of these outside matters ; but Silas felt 


134 


JILL. 


his heart swell within him as he took the large 
cup of coffee from Jill’s little hands. He noticed 
fast enough how the folks looked at them both. 
These glances, these significant nods gave him 
intense pride and pleasure. 

“ Seems to me,” he said under his breath, “ as ef 
the little cutting was a beginning to strike.” 

The meal was nearly over when Jill spoke again. 

“Yere’s ten shillin’s for the flowers you give 
me yesterday, Silas Lynn,” she said. “ Ten shil- 
lin’s, and my werry best thanks ; and ef you will 
fill my basket with five shillin’s’ worth more 
flow'ers o’ the common sort. I’ll be much obleeged.” 

While she was speaking, Silas’s face, which had 
resembled a great beaming sun a moment ago, 
grew black. 

“ You keep that ten shillin’s, or you’ll anger me,” 
he growled. “ Ef you must give it back, give it 
back another day ; but not now. Tell yer what, 
ef yer give it to me now. I’ll put it in my mouth 
and swaller it ; so there ! ” 

There was something so ferocious in the man’s 
change of tone and change of face that Jill felt 
sick. She knew that she must humor him if there 
was the least chance of his acceding to her request. 


JILL. 


135 


“ Mr. Lynn,” she said suddenly, “ I’ll keep that 
money, and give you ten shillin’s’ worth o’ thanks 
instead. I don’t mind saying as I come here to- 
day hoping as you’d do me a kindness.” 

Silas’s brow cleared as if by magic. 

“ The little cuttin’s a strikin’, not a doubt on it,” 
he muttered. 

“ Do you a' kindness, Jill Robinson ? ” he said 
aloud. “ Well, that’s quite arter my style. Let’s 
hear wot you wants, lass. Say the words as low as 
you like, my pretty, ‘I’m all a-listenin’.” Silas 
bent down towards Jill as he spoke. . “ There,” he 
said, “ speak up, don’t be afeard.” 

“ I’m in a good bit o’ trouble,” she said, her lips 
trembling. “ I told yer yesterday that I had lost 
some money. It worn’t stole — don’t yer think that, 
but it wor lost. I want to pay that money back 
again to-night. Will yer lend it to me, Mr. Lynn ? 
Oh, there’s nought under the sun I wouldn’t do 
for yer ef you’d lend me that money what got lost.” 

“ There’s nought you wouldn’t do for me,” said 
Silas. “ Them words is pleasant to hear — werry, 
werry pleasant. I has took a fancy to yer, and I 
like to hear yer say ‘ there’s nought you wouldn’t 
do for me ’ ; sech, for instance, as pouring out my 


186 


JILL. 


coffee for me, eh ? There, you’re blushin’, my 
gel ; never mind, never mind. How much is the 
money you want ? ” 

“ Maybe I ought not to ask,” said Jill, starting 
from her seat and speaking nervously ; “ it’s an 
orful lot — it’s five pounds.” 

When Jill named the sum which she required, 
Silas could not help giving a start of astonishment. 
Flower-girls like Jill had seldom anything to do 
with so large a sum of money. Silas was naturally 
a close man, and much as he was taken with the 
pretty flower-girl, he was obliged to think twice 
before deciding to lend her so much money. When 
she raised her dark eyes full of pleading to his face, 
however, and when their brilliance was veiled and 
softened behind tears, Silas could not help clap- 
ping his hand on his thigh and exclaiming, in a 
sudden burst of admiration : — 

“ ’Taint a toolip you are lass ; it’s a bit of a moss- 
rosebud. Jiminy ! ef you ain’t the very purtiest 
bit of a thing I ever clapped my eyes on — bar 
none.” 

“ You will lend me the money, will you not ? ” 
said Jill. 

Wait a while ; it’s big sum. There’s a power 


JILL. 


137 


of work in getting a lot of money like that together, 
and ef I give it away jest for a gel’s whim ” 

“ No, no ; not for a girl’s whim,” said Jill, “but 
for her sore need — for her werry sore need. Oh, 
Silas Lynn, I know as you has got a really kind 
heart.” 

“ Maybe I has, and maybe I han’t. I won’t lend 
the money unless you keep to your word. You 
said as you’d do anything for me.* That means a 
deal. Do you abide by them words ? ” 

“ As far as I can, Mr. Lynn.” 

“ You can abide by ’em ef you will. Now, for 
instance, ef I were to say there’s a nice little cot- 
tage in the country awaiting for a missis, and I 
wor to say, ‘ Come, Jill, and be my own true love ’ 
— why, I declare I’m getting quite into the poetry 
vein. And ain’t the pretty dear turned red? 
Shall it be a bargain, Jill Robinson ?— I give you 
the five pounds, and you give me your nice little 
purty bit of a self.” 

“ No, Mr. Lynn. No,” said Jill. Little by 
little the color had left her face ; even her lips 
were white. “ I didn’t understand it in that 
way,” she said. “ It can’t be.” 

She took up her empty basket and went away. 


138 


JILL. 


CHAPTER X. 

JlLLf never remembered afterwards how she 
spent that long day. She had no flowers to sell, 
for she had taken her basket empty from the 
market, leaving those that were over from the day 
before in a pail of water at home. 

She was too restless, miserable, and anxious to 
sit doing nothing in Howard’s Buildings. So she 
wandered the streets, quite indifferent to the gaze 
of the many flower-girls who knew her, and quite 
oblivious to the fact that her picturesque dress and 
beautiful face called for loud admiration from more 
than one passer-by. 

Tired out at last, she went home. She was 
glad that the long day had come to an end. Nat 
would soon be with her now, and the worst would 
be over. She sat down in the empty kitchen and 
waited ; there was nothing whatever else for her 


JILL. 


139 


to do. She had thought about the lost money, 
and about what she should say to Nat so often, 
that at last her tired brain refused to think any 
more about it. She held on now only to one in- 
stinct. She must shield her mother at any cost. 
If necessary, she must even go to the length of 
telling Nat that she had given her mother the 
money. 

She had come to this resolve when a quick step 
was heard on the stairs outside. A gay whistle 
accompanied the step, and then a hand knocked 
with gentle insistance on one of the panels of the 
door. 

Jill went at once to open it. Nat was standing 
outside. He had dressed himself with some care, 
and when Jill threw open the door and looked at 
him, he presented as fine a picture of a young 
English lad of the people as heart could desire. 
His curly hair was damp with exercise, his face 
was tanned with much exposure to the weather ; 
his honest, well-opened eyes were as blue as the 
sky. He was a tall young fellow, too, with broad 
shoulders and a well-knit frame. 

“ Eh, Jill ! ” he exclaimed, “ I thought you’d be 
in, and awaiting for me. I had no time to send 


140 


JILL. 


yer word ; but I guessed somehow as a little bird 
might whisper to yer as I’d be looking round.” 

“ Shall we go for a walk, Nat ? ” said Jill in a 
hasty voice. “ I ain’t quite well. Shall we go 
and take a walk on the Embankment ? It’s a fine 
evenin’, ain’t it ? ” 

“ Why in course : it’s a beautiful evenin’, sweet' 
heart. We’ll go out, ef you wish. But you has 
never given me a kiss, Jill. Don’t you want to ?” 

“ Yes, Nat,” replied the poor girl. She took a 
sudden step forward, flung her arms round his 
neck, and placed her soft cheek against his. “ I’d 
like to go out with yer,” she said then. “We can 
talk about kissin’ presently. I’m craving for the 
air.” 

She wrapped a bright shawl round her head. 
Nat took her hand and they went downstairs. 

“ Ef there’s anything as I must tell, it ’ud be 
easier out in the air,” she murmured to herself. 

For some time, however, Nat avoided all painful 
subjects. The two wandered down to the Em- 
bankment, and, going into the gardens, sat on one 
of the benches. They sat close together, and 
Nat’s brown hand held Jill’s under the gay apron 
which she still wore. A good many people passed 
them, and looked at them, and murmured to one 


JILL. 


141 


another that this silly young pair were in a fool’s 
paradise, and that they’d wish themselves out of 
it fast enough one day. It seemed to Jill after- 
wards, however, that they were all alone that 
evening, that no one looked at them as they sat 
on the bench together, that they had the gardens 
to themselves. 

The sunset passed, and the stars shone in the 
dark blue of the sky, and Jill looked up at them 
and thought that, after all, it must be very easy to 
be good. She had forgotten her pain and anxiety 
for the present ; the influence of the summer night 
was surrounding her, and the still more potent 
influence of young love was sending all fears to 
sleep. 

“ Nat,” she said suddenly, “ it seems as if the 
folks must be right.” 

“Wot folks, Jill?” 

“ Them folks as says there’s a God, Nat, and 
that He lives up there. Seems to me that there 
must be a God, and that He’s beautiful. I don’t 
believe we could love each other as we do, but for 
God.” 

“Maybe,” said Nat. “I han’t thought much 
about it. I were alters too busy. Ef He made 


142 


JILL. 


you love me, Jill, I’ll go in for believing in Him *, 
that’s sartin. But, oh ! my word, my word, there’s 
a sight of misery in the world ! ” 

“ That’s the devil’s doing,” said Jill in a fright- 
ened whisper. “I allers put the misery to the 
devil. But don’t let us think on it to-night, Nat. 
Don’t let’s think on one miserable thing this beau- 
tiful night. Let’s put all the pain out of sight. 
It’s there for sure ; but let’s put it out of sight. 
Do, Nat ; do, dear, darling Nat ! ” 

“ Why, my little love, you’re all of a tremble. 
Take my ’and, and let’s walk about a bit. We 
won’t talk of miserable things, Jill — at least not 
yet awhile. Come out and look at the moon shin- 
ing on the river. Ain’t it prime ? And how the 
water ripples. Why, you’re shivering still, Jill. 
Ain’t yer well ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, Nat ; I’m as well as a gel could be.” 

“ Let’s walk up and down then. I have every- 
thing planned for our wedding. I thought, may- 
be, we’d take a third-class fare down to Yarmouth 
or somewhere, and have a look at the real sea. I 
have an aunt at Yarmouth, a Mrs. Potter, and 
she’d give us a shake-down for nothink, I make 
sure. Wot does yer say, Jill ? ” 


JILL. 


14S 


“ I never looked at the sea,” said Jill. 

“ Nor have I ; folks say as there is nought like 
it. I believe we might give ourselves a week’s 
holiday. I has put by a few pounds. Wot’s the 
matter, Jill ? You’re shivering again.” 

“ I wor thinking,” said Jill, “ that maybe I were 
wrong about God. Maybe He ain’t up there.” 

“ Why, Jill, what do you mean ? And I do 
declare you have tears in your eyes. What is the 
matter, my little gel ? ” 

“ Ef God were there,” said Jill, “ ef the beauti- 
ful God I picter were there, He’d give us one per- 
fect happy evening — oh, I know He would, I 
know He would ! ” 

“ And ain’t this evening perfect and happy, 
Jill?” 

“ I can’t keep the pain out,” said Jill in a low 
voice. I ha’ tried, but it won’t stay away. I’m 
thinking of mother, for one thing ; she ain’t very 
well.” 

But we’ll both take care on her when I’m your 
mate ; and ef pain do come, we’ll bear it together. 
There ain’t a doubt as there’s a heap of suffering 
in the world, and it seems to me as if it worn’t 
right for us, however happy we wor, to shut our 


144 


JILL. 


eyes to it. Why, look at me, I wor fit to burst 
my heart wid misery this morning, and yet when 
I were running up them stairs at Howard’s Build- 
ings and thought that with each step I were get- 
ting nearer to you, it seemed as ef I could have 
shouted for joy. I take it that I wor in one sense 
selfish — in another, no.” 

Nat looked at Jill as he spoke. For a moment 
she was silent. Then she said in a husky voice — 

“ Why were you miserable this morning, Nat?” 

“ It wor about my mate, Joe Williams. You 
know I tolled you about him. Him and me we 
shared the same barrer, and the same cart of 
flowers. Joe was as good a feller as breathed; 
but he worn’t lucky. He had a sickly wife, for 
one thing, and four little bits of kids. He turned 
over a tidy bit of money ; but he couldn’t save, 
not ef he was to try ever so. It seemed as ef sav- 
ing and prudence worn’t in him. Do you think 
he’d pay a shilling a week to a buryin’ club, or a ^ 
sick club, or aught of them clubs as is the stay of 
working men ? No, no, that worn’t Joe. It wor 
all spend, spend with him. To be sure his wife 
was sickly, and he couldn’t deny her nothink, and 
she wor more to blame than he. That woman 


JILL. 


145 


had a perfect crank for smelling out money. Ef 
Joe brought ’ome as much as ’arf-a-crown, mean- 
ing to save it for a rainy day, she’d unearth it. It 
were no use his trying to save, for Clara were 
more for spending even than hisself. 

“Well, one day an uncle of his died, and left 
him five sovereigns in an old tea-pot. Joe gave 
the tea-pot to Clara, and said nothing about the 
windfall inside. But he give them five sovereigns 
to me jest a week ago, wrapped up in the identical 
brown paper as I handed to you two nights back, 
Jill. And he says, says poor Joe, with a sort of a 
wink of a tear in his eye, ‘ Ef the worst comes, 
Nat, that’ll bury me,’ says he, ‘ and I won’t be on 
the parish,’ says he. I can tell you, Jill, that 
money wor like a mill-stone round me, I were so 
feart of losing it. And I were fine and glad when 
I handed it on to you, lass. 

“ Well, poor Joe, he dropped down dead yester- 
day morning, jest when he were coming to help 
me fill up the barrer. It were orful sudden, and 
poor Clara’s nearly off her head.” 

Nat spoke huskily; the sorrowful feelings of the 
morning were moving him again. 

“ He’s dead,” he continued ; “ the best feller 
10 


146 JILL. 

living, the kindest heart as breathed. I’ll never 
meet his like, he wor that trusting and that com- 
panionable. We wor mates for close on three year, 
and never was there a word atween us. I can’t 
get over his dying off so sharp; but it is a good 
thing as you has the money safe, Jill.” 

“ Yes ; that’s a werry good thing,” replied Jill. 
She paused again. 

The moon was now riding in majesty across the 
dark blue heavens ; the lovers had turned their 
steps towards Howard’s Buildings. Jill was trem- 
bling no longer ; every nerve was on tension, each 
beat of her heart was warning her to be careful, to 
betray nothing. She wondered at her own sudden 
calm, at the power of brain with which she seemed 
endowed. She felt so still now, so capable of act- 
ing prudently in this terrible emergency, that she 
was even inclined to test Nat, to see for herself 
what he would do and how he would look it he 
really knew that his dead pal’s money was gone. 

“ It is a good thing as I has thein five sover- 
eigns,” she continued ; “ but s’pose as they war 
lost?” 

“ What do yer mean, Jill? ” Nat’s honest, open 
face clouded over, his blue eyes flashed a steely 


JILL. 


147 


light of anger. “ You oughtn’t even to say such 
a thing in jest,” he continued. 

“ No, no, in course I oughtn’t ; but it is a way 
with me to look at every side o’ a picter. You 
gived the money two nights ago to a gel as could 
be trusted. You loved that gel, you thought a 
sight on her; she had a mother the soberest o’ 
women, and she herself were honest as the day. 
You’re a lucky feller, Nat Carter, to have found a 
gel that lives up to yer creed. You’re rare and 
lucky, though I say it as shouldn’t, to marry a 
gel with sober, quiet and honest relations. You 
wouldn’t like it no other sort, would you ? ” 

“ I should think not,” said Nat, quickening his 
steps. “ But why do you talk in that queer fash- 
ion, Jill?” 

“ It seems to ease my heart like ; it’s so nice to 
know as I’m jest what you want. Now, s’pose, 
jest s’pose for two minutes, dear Nat, that things 
worn’t the way they are. S’pose I wor Jill still, 
with a heart all trembling with loye to you, and 
my face the same as it is, and everything looking 
jest as it do now, but the inside, Nat, the inside o’ 
your Jill quite different. S’pose jest for the sake 
o’ the thing, that my mother worn’t a sober woman 


148 


JILL, 


that she’d take a drop too much sometimes, and 
sometimes go the length o’ singing songs in the 
street, with a mob round her, and s’pose your Jill 
had to go and fetch her home and cossit her up and 
make purtense as she wor a very sober, s’pectable 
sort o’ woman, and s’pose still more, that when you 
giv’d me yer mate’s money I didn’t keep it safe, but 
I giv’d it to my poor mother what worn’t sober. 
You trusted Jill, and Jill worn’t worthy, and your 
dead pal’s money wor all gone, every stiver of it. 
You look at that picter, Nat, and say what you’d 
do with sech a Jill as I ha’ drawed out. Would 
you take her to your heart and say, ‘ Never mind, 
poor Jill, you loves me, and that makes up for all. 
Your mother ain’t sober and you ain’t true ; but 
your love is true, and I’ll take you to be my wife.’ 
That wouldn’t be your way, would it, Nat? ” 

‘‘ How wildly you talk, Jill. I think you must 
be a-going to have fever.” 

“ No ; I ain’t goin’ to have any fever, and I ain’t 
talking wildly. Answer me. Would you take 
the Jill as I have pictered to be your wife ? ” 

“ Take the child of a drunken mother,” said 
Nat ; “ take a false gel, what wor the werry worst 
kind of a thief, to be my wife ! No, thank yer. 


JILL. 


149 


Don’t talk on it, Jill ; it pains me ; it seems sort 
o' cruel to yourself even to speak on such matters.” 

“But,” said Jill, “one moment, Nat. You 
wouldn’t have her — you’re sartin sure, even ef she 
had my face ; the face you loves, the face you 
think werry lovely.” 

Jill threw off her many-colored shawl as she 
spoke, her dark eyes, gloomy in their great depths, 
were raised to. Nat’s ; her little brown, well-shaped 
hands were placed on his shoulders, her lips were 
parted in a faint smile, the gleam of her pearly teeth 
just showed. There was a passion of love and 
longing in her gaze which stirred the young man 
to the very depths of his being. Nevertheless, 
what a horrible picture she had drawn! A false 
Jill, a thief, the daughter of a drunkard ! 

“ No, no,” he said, almost pushing her clinging 
hands away y “ sech a Jill ’ud be nought, and worse 
than nought to me. Ef she had ten times your 
beauty I’d spurn her, I’d push her from me. Don’t 
talk on her no- more — don’t think on her. Put 
your hand inside my arm, my little love, and let’s 
walk fast, for you’re beginning to shiver again. 
Why did you talk so strangely, Jill ? ” 

“ A fancy I had,” said Jill in a light tone. “ It’s 


150 


JILL. 


over now ; let’s talk o’ pleasant things again. 
When’ll you want your mate’s money, Nat ? 
Shall I give it to yer to-night ? ” 

“ No, not to-night ; I’ll come round and fetch it 
to-morrow some time.” 

“ About what time, Nat ? ” 

“ Let me see ; I ha’ a deal to do for poor Clara 
Williams in the morning. I’ll come in the arter- 
noon, as early as I can.” 

“ Well, we’re back at Howard’s Buildings now,” 
said Jill with a little sigh, “ and I must go up home. 
Kiss me, Nat ; put your arms tight round me and 
kiss me.” 

“ My little love I ” said Nat Carter. 

“ Hold me a hit tighter, Nat, dear. I want to 
kiss yer werry, werry hard for a minute. Good- 
night, Nat.” 

“ Good-night, Jill, my own little love.” 

Jill kissed her hand twice to her lover, who stood 
and watched her as she vanished up the steep stone 
stairs of Howard’s Buildings. 


JILL. 


151 


CHAPTER XI. 

Silas Lynn left Covent Garden at an early hour, 
and went home. He had a very neat little wagon 
for conveying his goods to town, and he sat in it 
now, in the pleasant sunshine, and gave himself up 
to reverie. 

He was very much startled and amazed at his 
own action that morning. He had not only made 
love to a very young and very pretty girl, but he 
had asked her to come down to the country and 
share his bit of a cottage with him. 

He had asked her to take him for better, for 
worse. He had asked her to belong to him for 
ever and ever ; it was really a tremendous thing to 
do, a rash, overwhelming sort of thing. Here was 
Silas, a grim, sour, gnarled old bachelor (he was not 
very far from forty years of age), asking a bit of a 
lass whom he knew little or nothing about to be 
his wife. 


152 


JILL. 


Silas was known amongst the neighbors as a 
woman-hater — as a gruff, disagreeable, churlish sort 
of man, and yet now he was in love ; absolutely in 
love with a pretty girl who possessed a pair of 
dark eyes for her dower, who was nothing what- 
ever but a London flower-girl, possessed of all the 
knowledge, and probably all the wickedness, that 
that name implied, and who owed somebody or 
other the large, the enormous sum of five pounds. 

“ It’s a good thing as she wouldn’t have me,” said 
Silas, as he sat in the front of the wagon, and “ gee- 
upped ” to his horses. “ It’s a right good thing 
for me. She’d have been my undoing, sure as sure ; 
a dainty bit of a thing with a purty way and a proud 
look ; full of breedin’ ; and yet nothing but a Lon- 
don gel. Oncommon like the flowers all the same ; 
painted up by the Almighty hisself — roses in her 
cheeks, fire in her eyes, and — my word ! her lips, 
haven’t they a dash of color in ’em ! The Al- 
mighty made her very ’ticing — there’s no doubt on 
that pint. Worn’t she sweet just when she ’anded 
me that coffee ; my word, it tasted like new honey. 
But all the same it’s well I’m rid on her. I’ll have 
forgotten her by Monday. There’s the new colt to 
be broke in, and that bed of dahlias wants thinnin’ \ 


JILL. 


153 


I’ll say anything too that Jonathan’s coorting that 
wench Hepsibah, ’stead of looking arter the young 
sparrergrass. Oh, my hands’ full, and I’m well 
quit of a bit o’ a gel like that un,” 

Having reached home, Silas put up his tired 
horses, watered and groomed them, saw to their 
comforts in every particular, and then went into the 
little cottage which he had offered to share with 
Jill. 

Silas was a very prosperous market-gardener. 
He had what might be called a certain knack with 
flowers and vegetables. Under his touch they 
throve. His blossoms were larger than those of 
any other market-gardener round. He did not go 
in so extensively for fruit, but even his fruit was 
better and more abundant than his neighbors’. 

It was generally known that Silas was a man of 
substance. Every Monday he might have been 
seen trudging on foot to the nearest market town, 
entering the bank, and going home again with a 
satisfied expression on his strong, rough face. 

Everyone knew what Silas did in the bank. He 
was storing his money there, putting away every 
week his hard-earned savings. 

Notwithstanding his success, however, he was a 


154 


JILL. 


very morose and churlish man. He never ex- 
changed friendly words with his fellow-creatures. 
He never invited his neighbors to partake of his 
hospitality. He was very good to his flowers, and 
scrupulously kind to his animals. But that he had 
any duties to perform to humanity at large, never 
entered into his calculations. 

Although his small farm was so prosperous, . 
and his horses so comfortably housed, the little cot- 
tage where he lived himself was of the most meagre 
description. It was very old, and in its best days 
was but a poor residence. 

Silas said, however, that the two-roomed dwell- 
ing was good enough for him, and he would have 
been a brave man, and she a remarkable plucky 
woman, who had dared to suggest to Silas Lynn 
that he might with advantage enlarge his dwelL 
ing. 

He entered his house now, put a match to some 
bits of sticks and some small lumps of coal, which 
had been left ready laid in the grate, and, sitting 
down on a hard wooden chair, which was much 
polished with age and service, glanced compla- 
cently around him. 

When the fire blazed he would put the kettle 


JILL. 


155 


on to boil, and make himself a dish of tea — he 
called it a dish because that had been his old 
mother’s way of expressing it. He would drink 
his tea strong and bitter, without the luxuries of 
milk and sugar, and take with it a slice from a 
quartern loaf which stood in the cupboard, and a 
thick cut from the cold bacon which he always 
kept in the house. 

After this frugal meal he would be sufficiently 
rested to go out to thin the dahlias. 

Silas had quite made up his mind to forget Jill, 
nevertheless, he found his thoughts running back 
to her in a way which both perplexed and irri- 
tated him. He said to himself, 

“ I has took too much notice of the gel. She’s 
nought but a common gel, when all’s said and 
done ; and I has maybe turned my own head a 
comparing of her to the flowers made by the Lord 
God Almighty. It’s a good thing she wouldn’t 
have me; yes, it’s a right good thing. Praise the 
Lord for all His mercies, Silas Lynn. Drink yer 
tea and munch yer bacon, and forget the hussy.” 

Lynn put the kettle on to boil as he spoke. 
Then he looked round the tiny kitchen. 

“My certy, what a mess I wor near making of 


156 


JILL. 


myself,” he muttered. “ As ef she’d have been 
content with mother’s old room ! ” 

The kitchen was very small ; Lynn knew every 
inch and corner of it, but he found himself examin- 
ing it now with new and critical eyes. 

“ A more comfortable room there can’t be,” he 
said to himself. “ But it ain’t the place for a Lon- 
don gel. What ’ud she do with ike old eight-day 
clock, and the bit of the dresser where mother kept 
the dishes ? She’d come in with her fal-lals and her 
fashions, and afore a week wor out I wouldn’t know 
my own place. Mother’s arm-chair ’ud most like 
be moved from its corner, and tlie bunch of laven- 
der that she sewed up herself in the muslin bag, 
and pinned over the mantel-shelf, would be put be- 
hind the fire ; 'and mother’s big Bible changed for 
a yeller-backed novel. Oh, lor, what an escape I 
has had ! God be thanked again for all his mer- 
cies.” 

The kettle boiled ; Silas made his tea, ate his 
bread and bacon, and went out. He worked hard 
amongst his dahlias for two or three hours, scolded 
his servant Jonathan in round full terms, saw to 
the breaking-in of the colt, and the comfort of his 
two patient wagon horses, and finally retired to 


JILL. 


157 


his cottage when the stars were out and the moon 
shining. It was the very same moon that was look- 
ing down at this moment on Jill in her passion and 
anguish. But Silas knew nothing of this. He 
called the moon “ My lady,” and bobbed his head 
to it after a fashion taught him by his mother. 
Then he went into his cottage, locked the door, lit 
a small paraffin lamp, and set himself to read his 
accustomed chapter out of the big Bible before 
going to bed. 

Silas was a Wesleyan, and a very devout adher- 
ent of that religious body. He went twice every 
Sunday to the little Wesleyan chapel in the vil- 
lage close by, and on more than one occasion had 
himself been induced to deliver a prayer at the re- 
vival meetings. 

Silas had a stentorian pair of lungs, and lie 
could sing the old-fashioned Methodist hymns to 
the old tunes with immense effect. He was fond 
of giving way to his fancy on these occasions, and 
would supplement the tune with many additional 
twists and turns. He scorned to sing anything 
but a high and harsh treble, considering that the 
one and only quality necessary for rendering 
hearty praise to the Creator was noise. 


158 


JILL. 


Silas liked singing in the chapel, he liked pray- 
ing aloud, he would not have at all objected to ad- 
dressing his “ fellow-worms,” as he called them, 
Sunday after Sunday. Above all things, he liked 
laboriously spelling out verse by verse a chapter 
out of his mother’s Bible at night. He was not a 
fluent reader; perhaps because he only practised 
this art to the extent of that one chapter nightly. 
He liked to ponder over the words, and to move 
his great, big thumb slowly from word to word as 
he came to it. He never skipped a verse or a chap- 
ter, but read straight on, beginning the next night 
exactly where he had left off the night before. He 
was going through the Book of the Proverbs now, 
arid he made shrewd comments as he read.. 

“ Ha, ha,” he said to himself, “ don’t never tell 
me as there’s a man living now wot beats the great 
King Solomon for wisdom. Take him on any sub- 
jec’, and he’s up on it, with all the newest lights 
too. Natrel history, for instance ! hark to him 
on the conies and ants. Listen to him ’bout bees 
— why, it’s quite wonderful. Then, again, take 
gardening — seems to me Solomon was a born gar- 
dener. Don’t Holy Writ say of him that he knew 
the names of all the flowers, and could he do that 


JILL, 


159 


if he worn’t about among ’em — a-tying of ’em up, 
and digging at their roots, and watering ’em, and 
taking cuttin’s from the choicest of ’em ? Folks 
tell of King Solomon in all his glory, but I seem 
to see him most often out among the flowers, a-pet- 
ting and a-tending of ’em, and learning all those 
store of names by heart. But take Solomon all 
round, and his knowledge of the ways of women 
beats everything. Hark to the verse in this chap- 
ter : / Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a 
woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.’ 
That were my mother’s sort— no beauty in her, and 
no favor — a downright woman, plain in her way, 
and a bit primity in her notions; but, oh, the 
goodness of her, and the fear o’ God that shone 
round about her, making a sort of savor all round 
her like a sweet-smelling flower I Jill ’minded me 
o’ her, but not in looks, for the poor gel has them 
things spoken so strongly agin by King Solomon. 
But for all that there was a sweetness in her that 
seemed to me this morning when I looked into her 
eyes to be more’n skin deep. Most like I’m wrong. 
I’ve the Bible agin me, anyhow, and I ought to be 
thankin’ the Lord on my knees for having . saved 
me from the enticing wiles of that poor gel.” 


160 


JILL. 


As a rule, Silas spent his short night without a 
dream, but the events of the past day had dis- 
turbed his somewhat slow nature. His brain had 
received an impression of a girl’s grace, freshness, 
and beauty, which had penetrated straight from 
the brain to the heart. 

Silas fully believed that by Monday morning he 
should have forgotten Jill ; that her image would 
fade from his mental sight, her voice cease to sound 
on his mental ears. He did not know that he was 
never to forget her — that from henceforth to his 
dpng day he would carry her image tenderly, 
sacredly in the inner shrine of his heart. 

The little rosy god of love had come and touched 
Silas, and he could no more resist his influence 
than the flowers in his own garden could refrain 
from growing and expanding in the sunshine. So, 
quite contrary to his wont, Silas Lynn spent his 
night in dreams. Jill figured in each of these 
visions. Sometimes she was angry with him, some- 
times appealing, sometimes indifferent. She was 
in danger, and he was the one to save her. She was 
surrounded by prosperity, and he was the bene- 
factor who brought these good things to her feet. 

All the time, however, through all the happen- 


JILL. 


161 


ings of these queer distorted dreams, he and Jill 
were together. It did not surprise Silas, therefore, 
when early on that Sunday morning he awoke to 
hear some one knocking at his door. 

“ Yes, I’m coming,” he said, still believing that 
he was in a dream. 

“ I want you very badly, Silas Lynn,” called Jill 
from the other side of the door. 

Then he knew that he was awake, and that she 
had come to him. All the prudent thoughts of 
yesterday had flown to the winds. He found him- 
self absolutely trembling with eagerness, joy, 
ecstasy. 

“ Yes, I’m a-coming ; I’ll be with yer in a minute, 
Jill,” he called out. “ For,” he said to himself as 
he tumbled into his clothes, “ it’s too wonderful 
for anything. Who’d ha’ thought — who would 
have thought that a dainty bit of a cuttin’ like that 
’ud go and take root in a rough soil like this here ? 
It’s a fact nevertheless. Nothing less ’ud bring her 
here at this time o’ the morning. ‘ Favor is de- 
ceitful and beauty is vain’ — not a bit on it — ^you’re 
wrong for once. King Solomon.” 

Having dressed himself, Silas quickly unlocked 
the cottage door. 


11 


m 


JILL. 


Jill was standing outside, leaning Wearily against 
the post of the door. Her neat black dress was 
covered with dust, her apron was unpinned, her 
gay-colored shawl had fallen back from her 
shapely head, and her black hair, in some disorder, 
was tumbled about her face. Jill’s face was very 
white. Silas felt himself absolutely coloring 
crimson as he came out to her, but not a tinge of 
shyness or embarrassment were in the wide-open 
eyes she raised to his. 

“ I ha’ come,” she said, speaking in a choking, 
husky voice, “ for the loan of the money. I know 
wot it means, Silas, but I ha’ come all the same.” 

‘‘ You know what it means ? ” said Silas Lynn, 
clasping both her small, cold hands in one enorr 
mous palm. “ Do you mean to tell me that we are 
to wed each other, Jill Robinson ? Are we to go 
afore the pas’son, and take each other for better 
and for worse ?” 

“ Ef you like,” said Jill wearily. “ I ha’ come 
for the money first. That’s the first thing. We 
can talk of t’other later on. The money’s the 
first thing.” 

“ Yes, yes. Why you are all in a tremble. You 
must want that ere money bitter bad, Jill Robinson. 


JILL. 


1()8 

Look me in the eyes, gel, and say as you’ll play me 
no tricks arter I have gived it to yer.” 

“ I’ll be quite true to you, Mr. Lynn.” 

“ Now, don’t you speak in them stiff tones. Say 
‘ Silas,’ my pretty. Say ‘ I’ll be quite true to you, 
Silas.’ ” 

“ I’ll be quite true to you, Silas,” repeated Jill. 

“ And you love me ? ” 

« I— I’ll try.” 

“ Look you yere, Jill,” Silas was getting com- 
mand of the situation now. His heart was opening 
out under these full beams of love and rapture. 
‘‘ Look you yere,” he said, “ ef you’re true to me, 
Jill Robinson, and ef you love me even a little, and 
think nothink of no other feller — why, now I swear 
as there ain’t gel in the land as ull have a better hus- 
band. There’ll be love all round you, Jill ; and what 
can’t that do ? And ef I’m rough to outsiders you’ll 
never see nothink o’ it, my little gel ; your wishes 
’ull be mine, and your friends ’ull be mine, and 
your fancies will be my fancies. Day and night I’ll 
serve yer ; and there ain’t any gel, no, not even if 
she’s a princess,’ull have a truer mate. I wor a good 
son to my mother wots in ’eaven, and I’ll be a good 
husband to you, you pretty bit of a dainty flower — 


1G4 


JILL. 


ef you’ll do your part. F aithful and true, that^s all I 
arsk. Is it a bargain, Jill ? As to the money part, I 
could give yer ten times five pounds, ef yer wanted 
it — that’s neither here nor there ; but the other part 
of the bond I must ha’ your promise on. Faithful 
and true — you’ll be that. D’ye hear me, Jill ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Jill, “ I’ll do my part. I’ll think 
o’ none but you ; I’ll be true to you in word and 
deed.” 

“ Then that’s right. I’ll ask no more questions. 
There’s a home for yer mother in my ’ouse, Jill, 
and full and plenty for you from this moment for- 
ward ; and we’ll , get spliced up as soon as may be, 
gel.” 

“ But the money,” said Jill. “ It’s part of the 
bond between us, that I should ha’ the nioney and 
no questions asked.” 

“ You shall ha’ the money, and I’ll ask no ques- 
tions, ef you don’t want to tell me.” 

“I can’t tell you, Mr. Lynn. The money were 
give to me in trust, and it got lost, although no 
one stole it. I must give it back to the one wot’s 
lent it to me this werry arternoon.” 

“ You shall have it, my gel. Now come into the 
house, and I’ll get yer a cup of tea. ’Ow did yer 


JILL. 


165 


come to me, Jill ? And ’ow did you find my bit of a 
shanty?” 

“ It were this way, said Jill. “ I found last 
night, quite late last night, that the lost money must 
be gived back to-day. And I thought of you, and I 
’membered how real kind you were. It worn’t that 
I loved you, Silas Lynn. I’ll try to in future, but it 
worn’t with any thought of love that I ’membered 
you last night. But as I sat all in desolation, I 
see your face, kind and smiling, and tender like, 
a-looking at me, and I said I’ll go to Silas, and he’ll 
save me fro’ my misery.” 

“That wor right— that wor a good thought,” 
interposed the man. 

“ I went out then, and I come to a shop just close 
to the market, where I guessed as they’d know 
’bout you. It wor a flower shop ; the man’s name 
is Thomson. And Thomson said, as good luck ’ud 
have it, he were just starting an empty wagon 
back into Kent, to be ready for a load of strawber- 
ries for Monday’s market. And ef I liked, he said, 
I could have a lift in it. 

“ So I spent the night in the wagon, Silas, and 
in the morning the wagon set me down nigh upon 
four miles off, and I walked the rest of the way. 


166 


JILL. 


“ That’s all,” continued Jill, heaving a sigh, and 
sinking down into the old straw chair which had 
remained empty in Silas’s house since his mother’s 
death. 

“ There you be,” said Silas, clasping his hands 
in ecstasy. “ You mind me o’ the lavender, as well 
as t’other and gayer flowers. There’s something 
wondrous subtle and sweet about yer — mignonette, 
too, you take arter, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised 
ef I found cherry-pie flavor in yer before long. 
Verbena and sweet-briar you air, and no mistake. 
But there, I must see and get yer a cup o’ tea, for 
you’re sore spent, my poor little cuttin’, and you 
won’t strike into this yer honest breast, ef I don’t 
see arter the watering.” 

The members of the Wesleyan chapel to which 
Silas belonged would scarcely have known him this 
morning. The fact that he was expected to lead 
their choir was absolutely obliterated from his mind. 
It is very much to be doubted if he even remem- 
bered that the day on which Jill came to him was 
Sunday. 

Jonathan, his factotum, and one servant, ap- 
peared presently on the scene, and nearly jumped 
when he saw his rough, fierce-looking master 


JILL. 


167 


tenderly offering tea, minus milk and sugar, to 
the prettiest picture of a girl Jonathan’s eyes 
had ever rested on. 

“ You there ! ” shouted the master, “ make yer- 
self useful. Go round to Farmer Ladds, and bring 
in a pint o’ cream, and a slab o’ butter, and ask ef 
the missis has a plump spring chicken ready 
plucked for roasting. And go on to Dawson’s in 
the village, and get a loaf of white bread. Quick ! 
D’ye hear ? Wot are ye staring at? ” 

“ But it’s the Sawbath,” said Jonathan, dropping 
his jaws. 

“ Ef it’s fifty Sawbaths, go and do my biddin’. 
D’ye hear ? ” 

Jonathan flew off, and strange whispers soon 
after began to circulate in the village with re- 
gard to that soberest and soundest of men, Silas 
Lynn. 

But all the time Silas himself was in the Garden 
of Eden, for surely no Sunday like this had ever 
dawned before in his austere life. 

“ Ain’t the flowers purty ? ” he said to Jill. 
“ Never did I see any think like ’em. Seems as if 
they knowed. Do look at the perky airs o’ them 
pansies] Sauce is no name for ’em — staring up 


168 


JILL. 


at us two in that unblushing fashion. Eh, Jill, 
did you speak, my gel ? ” 

“ The flowers are like picters, Silas. I never see 
flowers like this all a-growin’ before. It’s very 
soothin’ to look on. They seem to still the ’eart.” 

“ Well, my ’eart’s a-bobbing and a-banging,” said 
Silas. “ There’s no stilling o’ it to-day, nor for 
many another day, I guess, My word, when you 
speak of yer ’eart being stilled, sounds as ef you 
were in pain of some sort.” 

“ No, Silas, I’m werry ’appy. But there’s a deal 
of pain in the world, you knows ; and its com- 
fortin’ to think as the flowers is meant for them as 
suffers. I must be asking yer for the money now, 
Silas, for I ha’ got to take the next train back to 
Lunnon.” 

“ I’ll come with yer, my gel.” 

“ No, please don’t. It’s a bargain that I am to 
give the money back to the one what gi’ it to me 
to keep, and no questions arsked. That’s a bar- 
gain, ain’t it, Silas Lynn ? ” 

“ To be sure, Jill. You don’t suppose as I 
doubts yer, my pretty little cuttin’? You come 
along to the ’ouse, and I’ll get the money out. 
’Ow’ll yer take it ? In silver or gowld ? ” 


JILL, 


169 


“ I’d like five sovereigns best, Silas, ef you had 
’em.” 

“Well, we’ll see. You set there in the porch, 
and I’ll go and look.” 

Silas presently returned with five new sovereigns, 
which he placed in Jill’s open palm. It was de- 
lightful to him to give. He had no idea that this 
gold was the price of freedom and of a girl’s first 
love. 

“ My word, how still she sets,” he muttered. 
“Breeding through and through. Wot flower is 
she most like now ? The lavender, I’m thinking — ' 
so primity and shut-up like in its ways. She’ll 
make a wife in a thousand. I’m ’bout the luckiest 
feller in Christendom.” 


1 





170 


JILL, 


CHAPTER XII. 

Quite early in the afternoon Jill returned to 
the humble little flat in Howard’s Buildings. She 
had felt nervous and excited until she got there. 
Nat might be waiting for her. Nat might have 
come and discovered her not there and gone away 
again, and the first suspicion of cold doubt might 
already have reached him. But when Jill dis- 
covered that Nat Carter had not yet arrived ; 
when she questioned Mrs. Stanley, who assured 
her emphatically that that handsome young man, 
her sweetheart, had not put in an appearance, she 
suddenly felt a strange quiet and almost apathy 
stealing over her. 

She sat quietly in her mother’s chair and folded 
her hands on her lap. 

She had got a task to perform, but the pain, the 
agony, which such work ought to cause her was 
not present at this moment. Nat should have his 


JILL. 


171 


mate’s money back again, but Jill must tell him 
that she could never be his wife. 

“ There’s no help for it,” she muttered. “ I must 
tell Nat as I can’t never wed him. I must make 
myself seem bad in his eyes. There ain’t nothing 
else for me to do. He’ll never know now, never 
to his dying day, that poor mother stole that ere 
money. The money part ’ull seem all right to 
him, but Jill — -he’ll allers think o’ Jill as fickle 
and false. I must make him think that— there’s 
no help for me. I’ll wed Silas, and I’ll try to be 
good to him, and I must forget Nat wot I loves.” 

Thoughts like these passed swiftly through the 
tired girl’s brain. She knew that she must soon 
speak cruel words. She must say good-bye to 
Nat. 

“ And I love him mor’n aught else in all the 
wide world,” she groaned. I love mother — Oh, 
I do love mother, but Nat — Nat comes first. If it 
were a case o’ choosing, perhaps I’d be mean 
enough to cling on to Nat, and let poor mother go, 
but it ain’t a case of choosing. Nat’s young and 
strong ; he ha’ got a true, true heart, and an 
honest face, and he’s ’spectable — oh, he’s hitter 
’spectable. There are lots of nice girls in the 


172 


JILL. 


world, and Nat ’nil get his pick, and it’s best for 
him to have nothing to say to a girl what have a 
mother what drinks. Nat’s all right ; he’ll com- 
fort hisself soon ; it’ll be easy for Nat to get an- 
other wife ; but poor mother, she has no one but 
me, for the boys they don’t count. Mother suffers 
bad pain, and she’s nearly distraught with one 
sorrow and another. It ain’t a case o’ choice. I 
must cling to poor mother.” 

When Jill came to this point in her reflections 
she rose and went into the inner room. Seeing 
her disheveled and untidy appearance in the little 
square of looking-glass, her first instinct was to 
brush her black hair smooth, and wash her face, 
and bring her whole little person back to the ab- 
solute order and fresh neatness, which was part of 
her beauty ; but on second thoughts she refrained 
from doing this. Her object now was to put Nat 
against her. 

“ It’ll cut him much less to the ’eart ef he sees 
for his own self that I ain’t the Jill he thought I 
were,” she murmured. 

She threw off her shawl, therefore, and, with a 
sigh of physical discomfort, came back again to 
the kitchen. 


JILL. 


173 


She had scarcely done so before Nat’s knock 
was heard at the door. She went at once and 
opened it for him. 

“ Is that you ? ” she said ; “ you might ha’ come 
sooner. I were getting tired o’ waiting ; it’s dull 
settin’ indoors on a fine Sunday. Come in ef you 
want to, though.” 

Her tone was almost flippant. Nat opened his 
blue eyes in astonishment. He himself was in the 
most irreproachable Sunday go-to-meeting dress. 
He wore a buttonhole of carnations. The sweet 
scent of that special flower gave Jill a sick, faint 
feeling for many a day afterwards. His hair was 
brushed from his broad white forehead. There 
was a fresh color in his cheeks, and his happy eyes 
looked like a bit of the sky. 

Jill’s untidy, almost slovenly, appearance dis- 
tressed him nearly as much as her change of voice, 
but he determined to take no notice. He came in 
and sat down, therefore, and said, after a very brief 
pause, in a gentle voice, 

“It wor Clara Williams wot kep’ me. The 
poor thing is nearly distraught with misery. It’s 
quite piteous to see her. And as to those four 
little orphans, wot is to come o’ them ? I’m sorry 


174 


JILL. 


I were late, Jill, but we can go out now and have 
a real jolly time. I can give you the rest of the 
day, sweetheart. Ain’t yer mother home, Jill ? 
Wor yer alone all the morning, my little love?” 

“ Indeed, no,” said Jill, “ I had company, and 
fine company too, but it worn’t mother. Mother’s 
out. She ain’t very well, and she wants lots o’ 
air and exercise, but I hadn’t a dull time, so don’t 
you think it, Nat.” 

“ Well, I’m glad on it. You may be quite sure 
I were thinking on yer when I were doing things 
for Clara Williams. I’m right glad you worn’t 
dull. Shall we go out now, Jill ? ” 

“ No, thank yer, I’m dead beat. I have been 
out already for hours. I s’pose you has come for 
the money, Nat. Here it is back. You count it 
and see ef I ain’t stole none.” 

Nat raised his eyes in astonishment. Jill, who 
was standing with her back slightly turned to him, 
held out the money in the identical brown paper 
wrapper which he had given her the five sovereigns 
in. 

“ Here, take it, I’m well rid on it,” she said im- 
patiently. 

Nat held out his hand and took the little parcel. 


Jilt. 


175 


“ Open it,” she said ; “ count the sovereigns. 
You ’member as you give me five sovereigns. 
See for yerself that they are all there.” 

“ Why, what is come to you, Jill ? ” said Nat. 
“ You speak queer. I don’t seem to know you to- 
day.” 

Jill gave a short little laugh. 

“ I has many sides,” she said. “ Sometimes I’m 
all honey, sometimes I’m all winegar. It’s best 
as the man what mates me should know me all 
round.” 

“ Yes,” said poor Nat, “ and I thought I did 
know yer all round, Jill; I made sure on it. I 
allers said as I’d never marry in haste. It’s an 
orful thing, marriage. Once done it can’t be un- 
done ; and I said as the gel what I took for wife 
should be my friend for many and many a day 
first. You ’member when we wor at school to- 
gether, Jill. How I took yer part, and how yer 
sat near me, and how straight you always wor, 
never skulking away from yer lessons and never 
shirking the truth. You wor a bit o’ tomboy, no 
doubt, but you wor true and sweet all round. You 
has growed up true and sweet, and more beautiful 
nor any picter. There’s no winegar in you, my 


176 


JILL. 


own Jill, but there’s a cloud over yer. Come and 
tell me about it. Put yer head here on my breast 
and tell me all ’bout it.” 

“ No, no, Nat,” said Jill, “ I don’t say as there 
ain’t a cloud. I don’t want, even on this bitter 
day, to say words what ain’t true, but there’s no 
goin’ to you for comfort any more, for we must 
part.” 

“ Part ! ” said Nat, “ part I ” His lips fell 
apart, his blue eyes flashed an angry Are. Then he 
closed his mouth firmly, and a hard look settled 
down on his handsome face. “ Do yer mean as 
you’re tired on me ? ” he said. “ You ha’ spoke 
werry strange since I come in, and you ha’ looked 
werry strange. Do you repent o’ our bargain ? 
Do you want not to be my mate ? Why do you 
keep your back turned to me, Jill ? Look into my 
face — look up into my face and tell me the 
truth.” 

“ It’s quite true as I can’t mate you, Nat.” 

Jill turned swiftly as she spoke ; out of her big 
beautiful eyes, looked for a second an agonized soul ; 
but Nat could not catch a'glimpse of this frightened, 
steadfast, loving soul, in the cruel agony which her 
words gave him. 


JILL. 


177 


“ You’re tired of our bargain ? ” he repeated. 

“ Yes, that’s it ; I’m tired o’ it.” 

And you don’t want to wed me ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then I’d best be goin’,” said Nat. 

He took up his hat and walked as far as the door. 

“ Ha’ you counted the money — are you sure as 
it’s all right ? ” called Jill after him. 

“ ’Course it’s all right ; what matters the money ? 
You go and break a chap’s ’eart, and you talk to him 
o’ money. You send a chap right away to the devil, 
and you talk to him o’ money. What’s money to 
me to-day ! I say, curse all women, curse goodness, 
I say — Oh, Jill, Jill, you don’t mean it. It’s a 
trick you’re playing on me. Jill, my little love, 
my little sweetheart, come back to me — come 
back.” 

Nat’s voice was broken. He flung his hat on the 
floor, and, rushing up to the young girl, clasped 
her tightly in a passionate embrace. 

For just a quarter of a minute she yielded to it. 
She felt the strength of the arms she loved. She 
said to herself, 

“ I can’t go on. Even for mother’s sake, I can’t 
go on with this.” 


12 


178 


JILL. 


But then the remembrance of Nat’s words of the 
night before, the remembrance of that cruel creed 
of his, which only believed in honesty, sobriety, 
and truth, came back like a cold wave to turn aside 
the warm impulses of nature. 

“ No, Nat,” she said, detaching herself from him, 
“ you must b’lieve wot I say. We ha’ got to part. 
I did think as I loved yer, and it did seem nice 
and beautiful to me, the thought of living with 
yer — but you’re too high — too high for the likes o’ 
Jill. Ef you wedded me, you’d turn bitter agen 
me, for I ain’t what you think ; I must ha’ my fling. 
May be I don’t think them things wrong that you 
hold by. Wot’s a lie now and then, ef it serves a 
good purpose, and wot’s jest not being too per- 
ticler ’bout change, and returning all the pennies 
you get, and selling withered flowers for fresh ! 
There’s a lot of fuss made by some folks about that 
sort of thing — I know what you thinks ; but I call 
that sort of thing soft. Poor folks has got to live 
and they can’t be over perticler. And then, Nat — 
you holds a deal on to sobriety — mother, she has a 
horror even o’ a drop o’ beer ; but me, when Pm 
wgrry tired, it’s comfortin’. I don’t go for to deny 
that it’s werry comfortin’. Wot’s the matter, Nat ? 


JILL. 


179 


How white you ha’ got. I’m up to the average 
gel, ain’t I, Nat. I’m not all white like an angel ; 
but I ain’t black neither, am I, Nat ? ” 

“ I has got a blow,” said Nat Carter. “ You’re 
right, Jill. I don’t know yer all round. I has 
promised to wed yer, and I’ll stick to it, if you’re 
o’ that mind. God forgive you, Jill, you’re not 
what I thought, but I’ll be a good husband to yer, 
ef yer wishes it.” 

“ Do I wish it ? ” said Jill with sudden scorn, 
and passion. “ Let the righteous wed with the 
righteous, and the sinner with the sinner. I’m as 
God made me ; I’m full of passion, and I’m full of 
weakness. You’re white, and I’m black ; but, Nat, 
where I loves I don’t see the sin. Ef you were as 
black as a coal, Nat, and loved me, I’d love yer back 
again. Oh me, me, my heart’s broke, but I can’t 
never, never be yer mate now, Nat Carter.” 

“ And yet it seemed all right last night,” said 
the young man. 

“No. I had my doubts last night, and now 
they’re certainties. I doubted then as you was too 
high, and me too low for us to come together, now 
my doubts is turned to certainties. Good-bye, Nat, 
good-bye ; choose a gel what never telled a lie, 


180 


JILL. 


what would scorn to steal and what wouldn’t touch 
a drop o’ beer to save her life ; good-bye, Nat.” 

“ Good-bye,” said Nat. He took up his hat in 
earnest this time. Jill’s words had frozen him. 
There was a numbness all over him, which pre- 
vented his feeling the real agony of the parting, he 
turned the handle of the room door and went out. 
Jill listened to his footsteps going down the stairs, 
they died away in the distance. 


JILL. 


181 


• ^ J 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Susy Gakter was one of those self-reliant 
people who are not over-troubled with conscience. 
Her nerves were in excellent order. She did not 
consider herself vain, but she was thoroughly 
satisfied with her life, with her ways, with her 
ideas. She utterly scorned the flower-girls who did 
not live up to the high standard which she had set 
herself. Had Susy been born in a different station 
of life, she would have gone in for the education 
craze, for the women’s suffrage question, and for 
all those extreme ideas of so-called emancipation 
which agitated the breasts of the sterner members 
of her sex. 

Susy was not lovable, nor did she greatly love 
anyone but herself. She was ambitious and in- 
tended to rise in the world. Even a London 
flower-girl can have ambitions. As in all other 
professions, that of the flower-girl has many grades. 



182 


JILL. 


Between the poor little, sloppy, ragged victim, 
who hawks miserable, withered flowers, reeking 
with stale vegetation and the infection of badly- 
ventilated rooms, and such a flower-girl as Susy 
Carter, there is a very vast gulf fixed. 

Susy heard of the Flower-girls’ Guild, and she was 
one of the first to join this admirable band. She 
delighted in the sanitary conditions imposed upon 
her. She paid her shilling a week regularly, and 
enjoyed all the advantages of the room where the 
flowers were kept at night, and the nice wash 
which she could give herself there in the morning. 

Nature had made Susy fair and pretty, and the 
becoming uniform of the Guild suited her to per- 
fection. Since she had joined it she had become 
more popular as a flower-girl than ever. Her 
flowers were better in quality, and the ladies who 
bought from her, finding this fact out, were only 
too glad to come to her again ; week after week 
she was steadily putting away money. If this 
state of things went on Susy hoped that in a few 
years she might have saved enough either to marry a 
respectable costermonger or to start a barrow, or 
even a shop for herself. Susy had not the least 
idea of marrying for love ; she was thoroughly 


JILL. 


183 


satisfied with her present life, which had a certain 
amount of excitement without undue hardship. 

Nat and Susy Carter had neither father nor 
mother, they were somewhat alike in appearance, 
and had certain traits of . character in common. They 
were both ambitious, hardworking, honest, respect, 
able, but where Susy’s soul was. small and crabbed, 
shrinking indeed from its normal size for want of 
any due care or attention, Nat’s was strong and 
brave, for Nat’s soul was saved by the intense love 
which he had felt for some years now for Jill. Nat 
and Susy shared the same rooms, and these rooms 
were by no means to their taste. They were in a 
low part of town, not exactly in Drury Lane, but 
in that poor neighborhood. The situation was 
most convenient, not far from the market and in 
the very thick of the life which they were obliged 
to lead, but the rooms occupied by the brother and 
sister although fairly clean in themselves were by 
no means to the taste of either. Nat would not 
have stayed there but for the hope that he and Jill 
would soon set up housekeeping together, and 
Susy quite made up her mind to share Nat’s home 
whenever he made it. She was sitting on this 
particular Sunday afternoon in their little kitchen. 


184 


JILL. 


leaning somewhat discontentedly out of the win 
dow, and wishing that the long dull Sabbath would 
come to an end, when to her surprise the door of 
the room was suddenly opened and Nat came in. 
Susy could not help giving a start of astonishment. 
Nat had left her some hours ago with a distinct un- 
derstanding that he would not return until night. 
Susy had given him a slightly contemptuous look 
when he had told her what his day’s work would be. 

“Yes, yes,” she muttered, “don’t tell me no 
more ; you’ll be a good Samaritan all the morning, 
and a lover all the arternoon. Each one to their 
taste,^ don’t tell me no more.” 

“ It ’ud do you good, Susy, to have a lover of 
your own,” said Nat, in reply to these bitter words ; 
“ a right good ’ansome feller as ’ud draw the ’eart 
out of yer, and make yer feel.” 

“ ’Ow ! ” said Susy, looking at him with mock- 
ing eyes. 

Nat reddened. A vision of Jill as she had 
looked the night before with the moonlight shining 
all over her passionate, tender face, flashed before 
him. 

“I can’t say,” he replied. “ You wait and see.” 

“ No, I’ll never see that sight,” said Susy ; 


JILL. 


185 


“ there ain’t a man living as ’ud make a fool on 
me. Give me a tidy bit of money, and I don’t 
mind what the man is like.” 

Nat closed the door behind him with a faint sigh. 
It was the first touch of that depression which was 
to seize him in such a might}^ clutch later in the 
day. Susy, in spite of herself, felt dull after he 
had left her. She wondered if she should go to 
church, but decided against this effort, and seating 
herself in the window began to unpick the trim- 
ming off an old hat, and to put it on again in a 
fresher style. She then warmed some tea for her 
dinner, and boiled an egg to eat with her stale 
bread and butter. Afterwards she took up a penny 
novelette which she had borrowed from her land- 
lady, and tried to interest herself in the impossible 
story which it contained. The hero of the tale 
was of course a duke, and the heroine was in a 
very slightly more exalted position than Susy 
herself. The duke loved the maiden, and the ro- 
mance ended in a brilliant wedding, in a shower of 
rice, and old satin slippers. Susy threw down the 
novelette with an impatient sigh. With all her 
faults she had plenty of sense, and the mawkish, 
impossible tale sickened her. 


186 


JILL. 


“I call it stuff,’’ she said to herself. “Dooks 
don’t marry gels like me. I’d a sight rayther read 
about a costermonger. A costermonger’s flesh and 
blood to me, a dook ain’t nothing but a sort of a 
sperit. Oh, my word, is that you, ^fat ? ’Ow you 
did startle me ? ” 

“ I come in quietly enough,” said Nat. “ I sup- 
pose I needn’t come into my own room on tip-toe, 
need I?” 

Susy gave her brother a long attentive stare., 

“ My, how crusty you’ve turned ! ” she exclaimed 
in her mocking voice, “ Wot’s up with yer ? ’As 
Jill been giving yer a spice of her mind ? I allers 
said that gel ’ad the ’eart of a tiger.” 

“ Look here, Susy,” said Nat, “ you stop that ! ” 
He came over and took the slim girl by her shoul- 
ders, and whirled her suddenly out into the centre 
of the room. “ You and me,” continued Nat, “ are 
brother and sister, ain’t we ? ” 

“ Yes, Nat, yes. Oh, my word ; ’ow you sets my 
’eart a-thumping.” 

“ Stop talking, and listen to me. I want to 
say something.” 

“Well, well.” 

“ Will yer stop talking ? I’ll shake the breath 


JILL. 


187 


out of yer if yer don’t. Now, then, you listen. Oh, 
you poor good-for nothing, you poor small, good-for- 
nothing bit of a thin soul ! You belong to me, I 
s’pose and I must stick to yer. I’m yer brother, and 
I must hold on to yer till you gets a husband of some 
sort. But look yere, Susy, ef yer mentions Jill 
Robinson’s name agen to me, whether you speaks 
for Jill, or agen Jill, it’s all the same. Til leave yer. 
I’ll leave Lunnon and I’ll go where you can’t find 
me. I’ll tell you a thing about Jill now, and then 
she’ll be atween us not as ef she were dead ; for 
we can speak o’ our dead; but as if she had never 
lived, and never died. . That’s how Jill is to be a- 
tween you and me, in all the days that are to come. 
There never wor a Jill. That’s how things are to 
be. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Yes, Nat ; you — you frighten me, Nat.’’ 

“ Wot’s a little fright to you ? I’m nigh to hell 
with torture. Jill’s broke with me. We’ll never 
be wed, never. But that ain’t the worst. The 
worst is, there never wor a Jill, ’twas but a dream 
I ’ad. I dreamt it all the time I were a-growing 
up, and all the years sence I come to manhood. 
And to-day I woke. There’s no Jill. Do you 
hear me, Susy ? Do you understand ? ’’ 


188 ^ 


JILL. 


“ Yes, Nat, I try to. And there’ll be no wed- 
ding, and no nice little flat, and no room for me at 
’arf-a-crown a week, and the run of the kitchen 
thrown in ? My word, the ways of some gels is past 
hearing.” 

“Not another word, Susy. You know our bar- 
gain. Ef you breathe Jill’s name even once again, 
we part, and you may take care on yourself for all 
I care.” 

“ No, I’ll not speak on her no more,” said Susy. 
“You needn’t pinch me so ’ard, Nat, and you needn’t 
glare at me. I can’t help it ef I don’t go into big 
passions like other folk. I’m made quiet, and with 
control of my feelin’s, and I don’t see as I’m to be 
spurned for it. I'm quite willin’ to drop that gel; 
she worn’t never a mate for you, -cordin’ to my way 
of thinkin’. Oh, for mercy’s sake don’t shake me 
agen, I expect my shoulders are black and blue as 
it is, from your pinches: Wot I want to know now 
is this. Are we to stay on in these loathsome rooms, 
or are we to move somewhere else ? You and me 
could take that flat in HoAvard’s Buildings, and live 
there by oui'selves — why not ? Oh, good gracious, 
wot is the matter noAv, Nat ? ” 

“I’m goin’ out,” said Nat. “You may expect 
me back when you see me, not afore.” 


JILL. 


189 


“ Ain’t you coming back to-night ? ” 

“Ab'” ■ 

The door of the room was banged to with a loud 
report. Susy waited until Nat’s footsteps ceased 
to sound. Then she threw herself into the nearest 
chair, and gave vent to a gentle sigh. 

“ Talk of tigresses ! Why, Nat’s turned into a 
tiger,” she moaned. “ Oh, my poor shoulders, how 
they does ache ! ” 

The next morning Susy arrived in good time 
at the neat room in Westbourne Grove, where 
the flower-girls who belonged to the Guild had 
the privilege of keeping their unsold flowers. 

The room was arranged on the plan of a dairy, 
and was so thoroughly ventilated that even the 
flowers which were over from Saturday night 
were many of them still fresh and fit for sale. 

Susy had bought a small supply of quite fresh 
flowers at Covent Garden, and she was not long 
in trimming up her basket and giving it a very 
presentable and tidy appearance. She did not 
possess Jill’s eye for color, nor her delicate touch. 
Everything Susy did was commonplace, but never- 
theless when she started forth on her day’s 
work, refreshed by her good wash in the nice lava- 


190 


JILL, 


tory which adjoined the room where the flowers 
were stored, there was not a more presentable 
or trimmer-looking flower-girl in London. Her 
fair hair was platted up smooth and tight ; the 
front portion of it being of course curled into a 
tight fringe. She wore the neat and serviceable 
costume of the Guild, having left her own clothes 
behind her at the rooms of the Institution. 

A flower-girl’s profits largely depend on the 
position where she can place her stand. These 
positions vary immense^ in excellence, and the 
good ones, in the neighborhood of railway sta- 
tions, and certain street corners where the thorough- 
fare is large, are much prized and eagerly sought 
after. 

Susy’s stand now, close to the Marble Arch, 
was one of the best in London. She had her 
regular customers, and it was not long before her 
basket was cleared of its contents, and her pockets 
were filled with substantial coins. Having noth- 
ing further to do in the way of business, she 
strolled quietly home, intending to go back to 
Westbourne Grove later in the day to change 
her costume, and get possession of her clothes. 

She had nearly reached the low street where 


JILL, 


191 


she and Nat lived, when a woman sprang suddenly 
from the shelter of a doorway where she was lean- 
ing, and clutched her by the arm. The woman 
was Poll Robinson. 

So marked was the change in Poll since Susy 
had last seen her ; so strong were the marks of suffer- 
ing on her face, so untidy her dress, so unkempt 
her black hair, that the girl did not at first recog- 
nise her. 

When she did, a sensation of repulsion came 
over her and she shook Poll’s big hand from her 
shoulder. 

“ Well,” she said, “ wot is it ? I ’as got my 
orders to have nought to do with you and yourn. 
Oh, Mrs. Robinson, you has been drinking, I can 
smell the gin on your breath.” 

“ Only a little drop, honey; the least drop 
— not more than two penn’orth. I ’ad a bad bout 
of pain, and the gin makes it easier. Susy, don’t 
walk so fast, for the love of heaven. My breath’s 
bitter short lately, and I can’t keep up with 
you.” 

“ But I said I were to have nought to do with 
yer ; them were Nat’s orders, and I s’pose I has 
got to obey ’em.” 


1^2 


JILL. 


“ Nat said you were to have nought to do with 
me ? ” said Poll, “ Did Jill say that ? Did she ? 
You tell me that true.” 

“ I can’t, Mrs. Robinson. I has nothing to do 
with Jill, nor with you, neither. Do let me go. 
It’s disgusting to smell sperits on a woman at 
this hour of the morning” 

“ It’s the pain, my dear ; you’d take to sperits 
yourself ef you had my pain. And so Nat has 
found out ! Oh, my God, and I thought to hide 
it from him ! Oh’ my God, this is bitter, bitter — 
this is cruel — this is too much ! Oh, to think that 
arter all Nat has found out ! ” 

“ It’s a good thing he has,” said Susy, speaking 
at random, for she had not the least idea what 
Mrs. Robinson meant. She liked, however, to 
show that she was quite mistress of the situation. 
“ It’s a right good thing as Nat has found out,” 
she continued, “ and a fine pepper he’s in, I can 
tell yer. I never in all my days seed him in sech 
a taking. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised ef Nat 
turned wicked, and he such a pattern as he allers 
were ! There now, Mrs. Robinson, I can’t be seen 
talking to yer any more. It’s as much as my life 
is worth. Good-arternoon to you.” 


JILL, 


193 


Susy walked quickly away, and Poll turned down 
a side alley. Her sufferings and the irregular 
life she was now leading had weakened her, and 
she felt a queer trembling sensation running all 
over her frame. 

She was accustomed to gin now, and the two- 
penn’orth she had indulged in this morning had 
little or no effect in disturbing her equilibrium. 
The gin warmed her and eased the ceaseless, 
gnawing pain. It was not from the effects of the 
gin that Mrs. Robinson was now shaking from 
head to foot. It was from the awful knowledge 
that her great sacrifice had been in vain ; that she had 
given up Jill, and in giving her up had parted 
with all the sunshine, and all the love which life 
could offer, and yet had done it in vain. 

Poll had gone away from the girl in order to 
save her from disgrace. She felt certain that Jill 
would fret for a little, that she would mourn for 
her and long to have her back again ; but by-and- 
by Nat’s love would comfort her. She would marry 
Nat, and they would settle down in their comfort- 
able and respectable home together. No need to 
tell Nat, who was so particular and so strict in his 

notions, that he had married the daughter of a 
13 


194 


JILL. 


woman who drank. He need never know that, 
for Jill would not tell. The secret, the dark 
terrible secret would be safely buried and Jill would 
have a happy life. Poll had gone away quite sure 
that this would be the case. 

The knowledge had stayed with her during the 
two or three miserable days which had passed 
since she had left Howard’s Buildings. Poll was 
a great deal more ill than she had any idea of. Her 
constant pain was caused by a terrible malady ; her 
fine constitution was being secretly undermined 
and she was not at all fit for the hard, roaming, 
comfortless life to which she had voluntarily sacri- 
ficed herself, 

She was in the state when she needed the tender- 
est care and the most loving nursing. Jill had 
done everything that a daughter could do for her 
mother’s comfort : she had given her good and 
nourishing meals ; she had seen that she. clothed 
herself well ; and rested well ; in short she had sur- 
rounded her with a life of comparative refinement 
and comfort. 

Even in that life Poll could scarcely endure her 
own sufferings ; how much greater were they now, 
when she was going through all the hardships which 


JILL. 


195 


a roaming existence to a woman in her class mean t I 

She slept in a common lodging-house at night ; 
she ate when she was hungry; and whenever the 
terrible thirst seized her she gratified it without a 
moment’s thought of self-control. 

Therefore the three days which had passed ^ad 
made sad havoc in Poll ; she looked years older, 
her dark face had lost all its comeliness, it was 
drawn and haggard, and there were many white 
streaks in her thick raven black hair. She was 
going down the hill very fast, both physically 
and mentally. She knew it, poor soul, and yet 
until this moment she had never repented of the 
step she had taken. She had done it with her eyes 
open, and she said to herself morning, noon, and 
night, 

“ I ain’t sorry, for I’m giving my Jill, the best 
gel as ever breathed, a happy life.” 

But now Poll’s head did reel, and Poll’s limbs 
almost refused to keep her suffering body upright. 
She had made her sacrifice in vain, for in some way 
some extraordinary, unaccountable way, Nat had 
found out her secret. 

Nat knew that Jill was the daughter of a woman 
who debased herself by diink. The knowledge 


196 


JILL, 


had come to him, it had all the worst effects which 
Poll had dreaded : he was very angry ; he was reck- 
less in his anger. 

Susy said that Nat himself would now go to the 
bad. Notwithstanding, therefore. Poll’s sacrifice, 
Jill’s^life would be wrecked. 

Mrs. Robinson staggered down the ugly slum 
into which she had entered, for some little time, 
then she ran against a wall, too dull and dazed to 
proceed another step. A child came up and 
touched her on the arm — a pinched, gutter child, 
who looked up at her with big eyes partly of 
affright, partly of indifference. 

“ Shall I take yer to the nearest public ? ” she 
said ; “ do you want another drop ? You’re half 
seas over now ; mother’s orful when she’s only 
half seas over. You come along to the public and 
have another drop, and then you won’t know 
nothink; you’ll be all right then.” 

“ So you think I’m drunk ? ” said Poll ; “ no, I 
ain’t drunk, there’s a pain here,” pointing to her 
breast, “ and a swimming here,” clasping her hand 
to her forehead ; “ but I ain’t took enough to make 
me even half seas over. You seem a good-nat- 
ured sort of a gel, and may be ef you lend me 


JILLl 197 

your shoulder to lean on, I’d find a copper in my 
pocket for yer by-and-by.” 

The child’s eyes glittered when Poll spoke of a 
copper. 

“ Yer may lean on me if yer like, missis,” she 
said. 

I want yer to take me to a place called Howard’s 
Buildings in Nettle Street,” said Poll. “ I can’t 
see werry well for the giddiness in my head ; and 
I can’t walk werry well, because I has a sort of a; 
trembling all over me ; but ef I may use your eyes, 
little gel, and ef you’ll be a crutch to me, why I’ll 
give yer thruppence, so there.” 

“ Howard’s Buildings,” said the child, “ I never 
yered tell on ’em nor of Nettle Street, neither.” 

“ I can guide yer a bit, honey. Ef you’ll tell 
me the names of the streets as we pass, I’m most 
sure to know ’em and I can tell yer ef we’re going 
right or wrong. You come close up to me, little 
gel, and let me lean on yer shoulder.” 

The child came up as she was told, and Poll 
and she began a slow pilgrimage through the 
slums. 

Poll’s head felt as giddy as ever; the pain 
which seemed to eat into her very life never ceased, 


198 


JILL. 


the trembling in her legs grew greater, but still 
she struggled forward. As the sacrifice was in 
vain, and Jill was miserable without her, why, she 
might at least go back to Howard’s Buildings. 
This was the only coherent thought she had. She 
would go back to Jill ; she would kiss Jill once 
again. 

Beyond this desire she was incapable of going. 
If she only kept on walking, putting one trembling 
foot before the other, she would at last reach the 
Buildings, and Jill and she would meet again. It 
seemed to Poll that a whole lifetime had already 
divided her from the child ; but now if only she 
could walk, the dreadful separation would come 
to an end. 

“ Can’t yer step out a bit faster, missis ? ” said 
the little gutter child. “ You lean hard on me, 
and step out, missis ; we won’t get to them 
Buildings — whatever you call ’em — ^to-night, ef you 
don’t step out.” 

“ I’ll try to, dearie,” said Poll ; “ I'm werry 
cold though. It’s late, ain’t it, honey ? Seems as 
ef the place was werry dark.” 

“ Dark,” said the child, “ it’s broad day ; why, 
the sun’s shining all over us. Oh, my word, I’m 


JILL. 


199 


melting up with the heat! and you’re no light 
weight, missis, I can tell yer»” 

>‘Let me grip hold on yer ’and,” said Poll. 
“ What street are, we in now ? ” 

“ What street ? ” laughed the child ; “ why we're 
in the street as we started in ;; we ain’t gone the 
length of Sulphur Row.” 

Oh, my God I ” said Poll, “ I thought as we 
were hours walking, and that the night had come ; 
you must let me lean up against somethink, for I 
can’t see.” 

“ My thruppence first,” said the child. 

Poll tried to fumble in her pocket ; a wagon 
was heard lumbering down the street behind them. 
The driver shouted to the child and woman to get 
out of the way. 

“ Oh, missis, come, come ! ” screamed the little 
girl ; “ you’re standing in the road — ^you’ll be run 
over^ — let me pull yer on the path leastways.” 

Poll with a great effort staggered forward. The 
wagon rushed by almost grazing her feet. 

The next instant tlie poor creature lay prone on 
the pavement, all consciousness having left her. 
The child uttered a cry and the usual crowd 
collected round the prostrate woman. 


200 


JILL, 


Two or three policemen came up and examined 
her. 

' “ Drunk,” said one of them impressively. 

“ No, she ain’t,” said the child; “I asked her 
that, and she said no, she worn’t a bit drunk ; she 
had an orful pain and wor werry giddy, and werry 
trembling in the limbs, but it worn’t drink I tell 
yer. She spoke real sensible. I know ’em when 
they drinks, and that worn’t what ailed her. She 
wanted me to take her to some Buildings or t’other, 
and she promised me thruppence. Do you think 
as I might take it out of her pocket ? ” 

“No, no; get out of this, you little varmint,” 
said the police. They examined Poll more 
critically, and finally decided to take her on a 
shutter to the nearest hospital ; this happened to 
be St. Bartholomew’s. 


JILL, 


201 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Notwithstanding the uses of Adversity, it is 
astonishing how well Prosperity agrees with some 
people. It has much the same sort of effect on 
them that the sun has on fruit and flowers. All 
the graces within them which have been invisible 
while the rough winds of adversity blew, now 
blossom, and show sweet bits of color, and little 
tender, gracious perfumes, which no one would 
liave supposed consistent with such hard, crabbed, 
in short, disagreeable products uf nature. * 

Silas Lynn had all through his life, up to the 
present day, been visited by the harsh winds of 
adversity. 

It is true they had not come to him in the form 
of poverty. He was too prudent, too hard-working 
for poverty to have anything to do with him. But 
a man can suffer adversity without being poor, and 
Silas's life from his cradle up to the present had 
been a hard one. 


202 


JILL. 


Pleasure and he had kept at a distance. The 
relaxations of existence had never been permitted 
to him. In short, his life had been all lessons and 
no play. 

Silas was aware of this fact himself, but up to 
the present he had looked upon it as a good and 
healthy sign of his soul’s state. His mother had 
taught him that chastening is the lot of the 
Christian. 

“ Whom the Lord loveth. He chasteneth, ” she 
had said to him so many times, that he whispered 
it to himself with white lips and a haggard look 
on his strong face as he bent over her in her coffin. 

When his fruit crop failed, and his flowers yielded 
but poor blooms, he repeated the old text again, 
under his breath, and took comfort from it. 

It was a great surprise, therefore, to Silas, when 
suddenly the whole aspect of things altered, and the 
Lord, whom he sincerely loved, ceased to chasten. 
Life was so completely changed to Silas that he 
scarcely knew himself. 

He was going to be married. There was noth- 
ing remarkable in the fact itself — more than one 
middle-aged woman of the Wesleyan community 
in his own village would gladly have come to keep 


JILL. 


203 


house for him. She would, as the expression goes, 
“ make him and mend him.” She would cook for 
him, and keep his place clean, and spend his money, 
and be the mother of his children, whom she would 
bring up in the fear of the Lord. 

Silas could have married Eliza Sparkes, or Maiy 
Ann Hatton, or Hannah Martin, and he would 
have received the congratulations of his friends, 
and the sincerest good wishes from all quarters, 
and yet not have been able consciously to say in 
his heart, “ The Lord has ceased to chasten.” 

But he was not going to marry a middle-aged 
woman from the village. He was middle-aged him- 
self, no doubt, nearly forty, but the bride who was 
soon coming to gladden the old cottage, and vie 
with the flowers in her beauty, was scarcely more 
than a child in years. 

This wilful, pretty, dainty blossom which he had 
culled out of the London streets was just the very 
last wife any one would have expected him to take. 
She would not be to the taste of the Wesleyans, 
and he felt that the congratulations and “ God 
speed 3^ou’s” from his friends would be few. 

But what mattered these things, when his own 
heart was singing a psalm of thanksgiving from 


204 


JILL. 


morning till night, when the flowers in his garden 
were absolutely riotous in the profusion of their 
blossoms, when the sun smiled on him, and the 
dews came at night to refresh him ? . What did he 
care for the neighbors, whether they were pleased or 
not ? 

During the first fortnight of his engagement to 
Jill, his own nature took a sudden late blossoming. 
His gruff voice became a shade lower and more re- 
fined in tone, and even Jonathan, his hard-working 
factotum, ceased to fear Silas. 

Master and man were very busy, putting the 
tiny cottage in order, for the wedding was to be in 
another week. 

On a certain Saturday evening, as Silas was stand- 
ing in the middle of his fiower-beds, contemplat- 
ing a late crop of enormous carnations, and con- 
sidering how many boxes he could fill with cut 
blooms for his Monday’s market, he heard the click 
of the gate at the far end of the garden path, and 
saw an elderly woman in a poke bonnet and long 
cloak advancing to meet him. 

“ Giminy ! ef it ain’t Aunt Hannah ! ” he mut- 
tered under his. breath. “ Now, whatever’s bring- 
ing her bothering round ? ” 


JILL. 


205 


He walked down the path as he spoke, and held 
out his big hand to his relation. 

“ Wot’s this I hear, Silas?” said his aunt. 
“ That you’re going to contract marriage with an 
unbeliever ? ” 

The little woman had an anxious, wizened face. 
It was raised now with a world of commiseration 
in it to Silas. 

The man felt so happy that he absolutely smiled 
down at the audacious little intruder. 

“ That’s all you know,” he began. 

. “ Oh, don’t I know, Silas ! Wot would yer 
pore mother say ef she were to come alive again, 
and see this bitter day ? Oh, Silas ! you that has 
been brought up on the Bible — han’t you read your 
Scripter to some purpose ? ‘ Favor is deceitful 

and beauty is vain.’ Oh, Silas ! — it’s Mary Ann 
Hatton, or one of them other sober women you 
ought to be taking to wife.” 

“ Yes,” said Silas, “ and wouldn’t both on us 
have been as cross as two sticks ? I’m taking a 
bonny bit of a gel to wed, wot’s sweet as a rose to 
look at, and with a perfume o’ the lavender and the 
cherry-pie about her. Good inside and out is Jill, 
and I guess ef Solomon were alive, he’d say as the 
price of a gel like Jill were above rubies.” 


206 


JILL, 


“I heerd tell,” said Aunt Hannah, in a slo^ 
voice, “ that you was quite gone off yer head, Silas, 
my man, but I didn’t go to b’lieve it until I had 
clapped my own two eyes on yer. I’m mournful, 
thinkin’ on yer pore mother. But there’s no man- 
ner of use in wasting words on a man wot’s gone 
silly, so I’ll wish yer a wery good-evening.” 

“ You stay a bit,” said Silas. “ Jonathan and 
me, we are doing up the cottage, and you had ever 
a cute eye for a good bit of furniture. Come and 
see what I am doing. I doubt ef you’d know the 
place.” 

With many sighs and groans, Aunt Hannah 
was induced to enter the cottage. She behaved in 
a melancholy way when she got inside, for the 
sight of her sister’s vacant chair provoked a 
sudden flood of tears, which embarrassed and 
annoyed Silas. 

“ Eh dear, eh dear,” she sobbed. “ To think of the 
last time I ha’ seen poor Maria a-bolstered up in that 
cheer. She had the asthmey awful, and she said to 
me, ^ Hannah, it ketches me most when I lies down.’ 
She said them words over and over and I don’t 
think I ever heerd anything more mournful. Eh 
and ef that ain’t the lavender I seed her put in with 


JILI. 


207 


her own hands into that identical muslin bag, my 
name ain’t Hannah Royal ! Oh, Silas ! it’s won- 
derful how you can go agin a mother like that I ” 

‘‘ I ain’t going agin her,” said Silas ; “ you shet 
up now. Aunt Hannah, you has said enough. 
Wot do you think of this table and chairs as I has 
bought ? And this rug to put in front of the 
stove ? Come now, give us your opinion; it’s 
worth having.” 

Thus appealed to. Aunt Hannah immediately 
wiped her tears, and going down on her knees 
began to feel the texture of the rug, and to put 
it up to her nose, and to sniff at it, and then hold it 
between hei*self and the light. 

“ I misdoubt me that it ain’t made with three 
threads across,” she said, laying it down with 
some contempt. “ And the color’s too flashy 
for my taste. I like a drab ground, with a teeny 
sprig of purple on it* Let me look at that ’ere 
table. You don’t mean to tell me, Silas, as you has 
gone and bought a meehogany table? Don’t yer 
know as sech a table is sinful waste to a man in 
your station ? ” 

“ It were goin’ dirt cheap,” said Silas, in an 
apologetic tone. 


208 


JILL. 


“ I misdoubt me that it’s worm-eat,” said Aunt 
Hannah. “ And as to this cheer, its creak would 
turn a body silly. Well, is there any think else 
for me to see ? ” 

“ There’s a crate in that corner, full of cups 
and saucers and plates and dishes.” 

‘‘ Chaney ? ” said Aunt Hannah. “ I’m a jedge 
of that. I’ll unpack the crate ef you wish, Silas.” 

“Well, do,” said Silas. “I’ll be obleeged. I 
can manage flowers, but I ’ates touchin’ chaney. 
It seems to slip out of yer fingers, however 
careful you air. You unpack the crate, missis, 
and we’ll have a cup of tea together.” 

Silas proceeded to light the fire, and put the kettle 
on to boil, and Aunt Hannah unpacked the crate 
which contained the cups and saucers, and plates, 
and dishes, with which Jill was to. help to furnish 
her new home. 

If there were one thing more than another for 
which Mrs. Royal had a truly worldly affection, it 
was for “ chaney.” She was a good judge of all 
house furniture, but with regard to “ chaney ” she 
felt herself a specialist. She was as knowing on this 
point as Silas was with regard to the best blooms 
and the choicest cuttings. The task, therefore. 


JILL. 


209 


to which she now set herself was quite to her mind. 

Silas had not dared to choose the tea service and 
the plates and dishes himself — he had asked a 
friend of his to buy them for him, and to have them 
sent down to the cottage. When Aunt Hannah, 
therefore, removed the paper wrapper from a deli- 
cate cup of white and gilt with a blue convolvulus 
lying across the saucer, and sending its delicate 
tendrils round the cup, he came and gazed at the 
lovely specimens with certain quickening of his 
pulses, and a queer inclination in his eyes to water. 

“ I say ! ” he exclaimed, “ I never thought as 
chaney would look like that.” 

“ It’s most owsuitable,” said Aunt Hannah. 
‘‘ But I don’t deny as it’s neat. My word, I only 
hope as that gel will have deft fingers, or she’ll 
be crackin’ and splittin’’ this yere fragile chaney. 
You don’t mean to say, Silas, as you’ll use it 
hevery day ? You air sinning a’most past kno win’ 
you, but I don’t s’pose as you’ll go the awful 
depths of using this yere chaney hevery day.” 

“ That must be as Jill pleases,” said Silas. 
“ Giminy ! I never did know as chaney could 
look like this ; it seems to add a fresh pleasure 
to life — why, it a’most beats the flowers.” 

14 


210 


JILL. 


“ I won’t deny that it ain’t a werry neat pattern,” 
said Aunt Hannah, “ the twist of convolvuly is werry 
cunnin’, but chaney like that is meant to lock up 
in a cupboard ; there ain’t no one as ’ud use it daily.’’ 

“ Look here,” said Silas, “ there’s a power of 
cups and saucers, ain’t there. Aunt Hannah? ” 

“ My word, yes,” said Aunt Hannah, “ a whole 
dozen, and plates to match, and four fruit dishes 
and a couple of cake plates, and a slop-bowl and 
a teapot, and a cream jug and sugar-basin — it’s the 
most complete thing I iver seed.” 

“ Well, then, look yere,” said Silas, “s’pose 
as we has a tea-drinkin out of it.” 

“ Silas ! ” Aunt Hannah dropped her lower jaw 
and her small eyes grew beady bright in their glance. 

“ S’pose,” continued Silas, “ we had a tea-drinkin’ 
out of it, and we asked Jill down, and one or two 
o’ the neighbors to meet her, and you come and 
spend the night here, Aunt Hannah, and you onder- 
take the tea-drinkin’ — s’pose now you do that, eh ? ” 
“Well,” said Aunt Hannah, “it seems like en- 
couraging of you, Silas, in your mad folly.” 

“ Not a bit on it,” said Lynn. “ For 'vvhether you 
come or whether you go, Jill and me we’ll be mar- 
ried at the church in the village come next Thurs- 


JILL. 


211 


day. You can please yerself, Aunt Hannah, but I 
thought as we might have our tea-drinkin’ on Tues- 
day, and you’d see with your own eyes, and the 
neighbors ’ud see, what sort of a little gel were 
coming home to me, to cheer up my life.” 

“Well,” said Aunt Hannah, “ I don’t go fer to 
deny that there’s something in your idee, Silas. 
I own as I’d like to say a word to that gel on the 
subject of chaney like this. Ef I found her teach- 
able and humble in her notions, I don’t promise 
mind, but I might give her three cracked delf cups 
of my own — white they was once, but they has 
turned yeller — she could use ’em for common and 
keep this chaney for best, for christenings, and sech 
like, and the delf cups ’ud be a very suitable present 
from your aunt to her, Silas.” 

“ You can do that as you please,” said Silas. 
“ Air we to have the tea-drinkin’, or air we not, 
Aunt Hannah ? ” 

“ I think, hall things considerin’, that it ’ud be 
right to have it,” said Aunt Hannah, in a solemn 
voice. “ In a matter o’ this sort it’s right to con- 
sider the waluables, and this chaney is altogether 
out of the common. The first thing to be done is, 
to scald it, and that I’ll manage for yer on Monday 
morning, Silas, for I’ll bring over my own wooden 


212 


JILL. 


pail, and gradually heat each cup and each saucer 
in hot water, until it’ll bear the heat when it cornea 
to the bile. It’s wonderful careless of gels in these 
days, they’ll crack the finest chaney for not know- 
ing how properly to scald it afore usin’.” 

“ That’s settled then,” said Silas. “ I’ll speak to 
Jill to-morrow, and we’ll ask Mr. Hibberty Jones 
and his wife, and Mary Ann Hatton to come to 
tea, arid ef Mr. Peters ’ud honor us as well we’^d 
be proud to see him. You’ll see to the victuals 
won’t you. Aunt Hannah ? ” . *• 

“ Yes, you leave that io me,” said Aunt Hannah. 

That gel ’ull eat a cake worth eating, for the first 
time in her life — and now I must be goin’ ’ome.” 


JILL. 




i CuV/ ,yj 


CHAPTER XV. 

Jill was quite willing to accompany Silas home 
for the tea-drinking. He told her about it on Sun- 
day when he went to see her in her little flat. 

“ Yer to come down looking as peart as you can, 
Jill,*' he said to her. “The folks in Newbridge 
beats all folks livin’ for contrariness. They think 
that God Almighty did right when He made a 
lovely flower,, and mortal wrong when He made 
a lovely woman. They think as sweetness and 
beauty can go together in flowers but not in gels, 
so I want you to look your werry best, my dainty 
little cuttin’, and show ’em as they are all hout for 
once in their reckonin’s. I’m thinkin’ as may be 
yer would like a new bit of a gownd ; what do yer 
say to a yaller cotton now, made werry stylish ? 
I don’t mind paying a real good dressmaker to put 
it together. Come, now, would you like it, eh ? ” 
“No, thank you, Silas,” said Jill. “I’ll feel 


214 


JILL 


more at home like in my old black gownd, which 
has in a sort of a way growed to me. I’d like best 
to wear that with a bit of a posy that you’ll pick 
out of the garden fresh for me when I get down.” 

“You’re to stay for the night, mind, when you 
do come,” said Silas. “ An aunt o’ mine, a Mrs. 
Royal, a werry decent body, can share my bed with 
yer, and I’ll go and have a shake-down at Peters’s. 
You’ll be sure to come in good time, and a lookin’ 
yer best, Jill.” 

“ Yes, Silas,” she replied, with a meekness which 
would have puzzled him very much had he known 
her better. He was too happy and content, how- 
ever, for even the faintest suspicion of anything not 
being quite right to enter his mind. 

Jill Robinson was like the mignonette and the 
lavender and the cherry-pie for sweetness of charac- 
ter, while she resembled the crimson rosebud in 
the richness of her beauty. 

Yes, surely the Lord had given up chastening 
Silas when so great a prize as Jill was to be his. 

The invited guests were only too eager to come 
to the tea-drinking. Notwithstanding the disap- 
proval of the congregation at Silas’s choice, those 
of them who were favored with an invitation to 


JILL. 


215 


see his bride were by no means slow of availing 
themselves of it. 

Mrs.Hibberty Jones and Miss Mary Ann Hatton 
went, it is true, under a protest, but Hibberty Jones 
himself and Peters owned that they did not object 
to seeing beauty when they could do so in a good 
cause. It was distinctly to Silas’s advantage that 
the foremost members of the congregation should 
support him at this critical juncture, and if possible 
take early steps to convert Jill to her future 
husband’s faith. So, dressed in their best, the 
homely village folk walked across the fields, on this 
lovely summer’s evening, to Silas Lynn’s tea- 
drinking. 

Silas had ordered a new suit of strong rough 
frieze for his wedding. The suit had been made 
in a great hurry by the village tailor, and was 
sombre both in its cut and its color. But the 
gloomy effect of coat and trousers was much 
relieved by a gay waistcoat of white with a col- 
ored sprig bedecking it all over. This waist-coat 
had belonged to Silas’s father, and was regarded 
in the family as a very precious heirloom. He 
wore in his buttonhole three large crimson 
carnations, and altogether made an imposing 


216 


JILL. 


spectacle as he stood in the porch of the little 
cottage to receive his visitors. 

Aunt Hannah was busy inside the house. She 
wore a dark plum-colored dress, and a little tight 
black net cap, tied under her chin with a bow of 
yellow ribbon. 

Jill had not yet arrived, and Silas, while he held 
out his great hands in hearty greeting to his 
visitors, could not help letting his eyes wander 
anxiously up the path which led from the railwa}^ 
station direct to the cottage. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Lynn ? ” said Miss Mary 
Ann Hatton in an acrid voice. “ Allow me to 
congratulate you. Oh, pray don’t let us keep 
your hattention. Where the h’eyes stray is where 
the ’eart is to be found. Ain’t that so, Mrs. 
Jones?” 

“It ain’t modest to speak o’ them sort of things 
aloud,” said Mrs. Jones, in a hushed voice, to the 
spinster. “ Don’t let yer feelin’s get the better of 
yer, Mary Ann — you’re disappointed, but keep it 
dark, for the sake of feminine modesty. Well, 
Mr. Lynn, we’re proud to come and meet this 
young gel what is soon to be yer wife. Have she 
come, yet? Or are you looking for ’er over the 


JILL. 


217 


brow of the ’ill, that you keep your eye fixed on 
that one pint so constant.” 

“ She ain’t come, but I’m expectin’ of her every 
minute,” said Silas. “ I’m real proud to welcome 
yer, neighbors. Come in, come in. My aunt, 
Mrs. Royal, is in the house a-brewing the tea. 
Come in, neighbors, and make yerselves at home.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Hibberty Jones and Miss Hatton 
stepped immediately across the threshold, but old 
Mr. Peters stood still, and put one of his wrinkled 
hands, with marked solemnity on Silas Lynn’s 
shoulder. 

“ Wanity of wanity, Silas,” he said in a mourn- 
ful tone. “ I didn’t think as you’d have been tuk 
in by a bit of a gel to the extent of wearin’ a 
flowered waistcoat. You has had a sudden fall, 
Silas.” 

“Go right into the house, Mr. Peters,” said 
Silas. “ There’s Jill a-coming down the field. 
You look at her, and tell me arterwards ef you 
think she wor worthy of a sprigged waistcoat 
or not?” 

When Jill and Silas entered the little cottage 
side by side, the rest of the visitors were seated in 
some impatience round the tea-table. The board 


218 


JILL. 


was well supplied with a large brown cake in the 
centre, a freshly-cooked ham at one end, and the 
tea equipage, containing the delicate white and 
gold tea-service, at the other. Bread in great 
junks, hot cake, butter in several fancy devices, 
and a large dish of honey completed the repast. 

Hibberty Jones had placed himself as near that 
end of the table where the ham stood as possible. 
Miss Hatton sat pensively where she could keep 
control of the honey, and Mrs. Hibberty Jones 
made up her mind that she would act as cutter of 
the cake. 

When Silas and Jill entered, the whole company 
arose, and each in turn offered a cold handshake to 
the London flower-girl. Room was made for her 
to sit down beside Silas at the end of the board, 
and Aunt Hannah, with a loud “a-hem, ” lifted 
the teapot to dispense the tea. 

“ May I ask, Mrs. Jones,” she inquired, “’ow 
you like your tea sarved, or ef you has no wishes 
on the subjeck ? Some folk ain’t particular, but it’s 
best to know.” 

“ I ain’t what’s called particular,” said Mrs. 
Jones. “No honey, I thank you. Miss Hatton — 
but I likes my tea to lay for a good eight or ten 


JILL. 


219 


minutes arter it is made. I will own that I likes 
it bitter ; flavored with one spoonful of thick 
rich cream and three good lumps of castor sugar. 
Jones goes in for four lumps, but I say so much 
sugar is apt to lay heavy, so three’s my quantity. 
I’ll trouble you not to give me more than one 
teaspoonful of cream, Mrs. Royal.” 

“Sech strong tea is wonderful bad for the 
narves,” said Miss Hatton. “ May I ask, miss,” 
turning to Jill, “ ’ow you takes it in the City ? 
I’m told, but I don’t know ef it’s true, that you 
mostly uses our tea leaves over agen.” 

“ I don’t think it’s true,” replied Jill, “ though 
may be there air some folks poor enough even for 
that.” She raised her great dark eyes as she spoke, 
and looked sadly at Miss Hatton. 

The spinster turned away with a toss of her head. 

“ Why, she’s foreign,” she muttered. “ It’s worse 
even than I feared.” 

“ I have no doubt, miss, whatever, that you 
always drinks the best o’ tea,” said Hibberty Jones 
with a gallant bow. “ So purty a bit of a young 
gel couldn’t but have the werry best.” 

“ Quite so-— I agrees with you, Mr. Jones,” said 
Mr. Peters. 


4 


220 


JILL. 


The women could not forbear snorting audibly, 
and Miss Hatton in her agitation dropped a spoon- 
ful of honey on the white cloth, and the next 
moment one of the delicate white saucers with the 
convolvulus lying .across its smooth surface had 
been pushed by her awkward elbow on to the 
floor. It lay there in shivers. Aunt Hannah 
gave an unearthly groan, and Silas felt the purple 
color of rage dyeing his face. 

“ Don’t say a word, Silas,” said Jill in a soft 
tone. 

She sprang lightly to her feet, ran round to Miss 
Hatton’s side, picked up the broken crockery 
which she put out of sight, placed another saucer 
beside Miss Hatton’s plate, and returned to her 
place by Silas. 

Her little action was so swift and graceful, and 
the lovely color which mantled her cheeks was so 
becoming, that the three men could not help 
expressing their approval by a low sort of under- 
ground cheer. 

“You have a kind heart, I see, my lass,” said 
old Peters ; “ a kind heart as well as a purty 
face. I never knew ’em go together afore. I 
divided the world o’ women afore info two lots. 


JILL. 


221 


There was the illigant faymales, with their fine 
faces, and their fine walk, and their fine bits o’ 
ways ; and there was the plain, down-right women, 
like my old missis, wot died, and like our good 
friend, Mrs. Hibberty Jones ” (Mrs. Hibberty Jones 
turned white with suppressed anger at this marked 
allusion to her present appearance) “ and like 
Miss Hatton,’^ continued Peters, “ sterling bodies 
both o’ them, butawk’ard outside. We must own 
as plain women is often awk’ard outside. Well, I 
thought as the plain uns were the good uns and 
the purty uns the bad uns. N ever thought as they’d 
get mixed ; never did, never. But the ways of the 
Lord are wonderful, and I can’t but b’lieve that 
there’s a purty nature inside that bonny face o’ 
yourn, my gel.” 

Jill received old Mr. Peters’s rather embarrass- 
ing compliments with a calm indifference that 
greatly amazed the three other women present. 

“ I don’t think nobody ought to think o’ looks 
one way or t’other,” she said, after a pause. 
“ We’re as we’re made — it’s the inside as is 
everything. I never know’d kind, rich, grand sort 
o’ folks like these here afore. I wor brought up 
rough, although I don’t like roughness; and 


222 


JILL, 


some o’ the people I has met were real ugly in 
feature, but oh, the ’earts in ’em— the kindness 
o’ ’em — the beautiful look as love had put in their 
eyes. I don’t think the looks matters at all, it’s 
the ’earts as is everything.” 

Jill looked so sweet when she said this that 
even the angry women were appeased, and Miss 
Hatton, suddenly moving her chair, made room 
for Jill to sit opposite the honey. 

“ You come nigh to me,” she said ; “ I own as I’m 
awk’ard, and I’m sorry I broke a bit of your chaney” 
“ Go and set near her, Jill,” whispered. Silas ; 
your winnin’ of ’em all, my little cuttin’, I 
knew as yer would.” 

“ Jill,” said Aunt Hannah, “ I ’ope as you’re a 
gel as is willin’ to hact up to your own words. 
I will say as you looks well-meaning. It worn’t 
your fault as you were made handsome — it’s a 
trial, I will own ; but you must try and take it 
patient. But what I wants to know is this — ’ave 
you or ’ave you not got a light hand with chaney. 
Chaney is more delicate nor a woman ; it has, so 
to speak, no constitootion. Any minute, by a rough 
knock or a push, or the awk’ardness jest now 
shown by Mary Ann Hatton, and there— it’ll 


JILL. 


223 


go, shivered. The gel what can manage chaney 
has something to be proud on. When I was 
married I got a tea-sarvice of white chaney with 
a gold rim, and a scalloped edge round the saucer. 
It wor werry neat, but not a patch on this, for 
this blue convolvuly is too cunnin’ for anything. 
Well, when you come to see me, Jill, I’ll show 
you my chaney, every piece complete, not a crack 
in it, nor a chip ; all the little cups, and the 
scalloped saucers and the plates, jest as I got 
’em when I wor married. Why wor this ? I’ll tell 
yer why. I put ’em in a glass cupboard, and I 
never used ’em ’cept at christenings. Ef you 
keep this chaney for chi’istenings why it’ll last, 
Jill, but ef you uses it every day, it stands to 
reason as the constitootions of these cups and 
saucers will give way. I ask yer now, in the 
presence of yer future husband, Mr. Peters, 
Mr. Hibberty Jones, the good wife of the latter, 
and Miss Mary Ann Hatton, what is yer inten- 
tions with regard to this beautiful chaney ? ” 

“ How can she tell jest now. Aunt Hannah ? ” 
said Silas. 

“ In the matter of wedding the gel I leave 
everything to you, Silas,” remarked his aunt, 


224 


JILL. 


“but in the cause of the chancy I must speak 
my mind. Consider this question, my gel, and 
hanswerme true.” 

There was a dead pause when Aunt Hannah 
came to the end of her oration. The other women, 
and even the men, looked at Jill with some small 
anxiety. She was quite silent for a moment, look- 
ing down at the delicate little cup and saucer which 
stood by her plate. 

“I think, ’’she said, after a minute’s silence, “ that 
we might have a little cupboard made for this yere 
chancy, Silas. The cupboard could face the door 
and the, two windows, and when the sun come in it 
’ud shine on the cups and saucers and make ’ em 
look real fine, and when Aunt Hannah came to see 
us we could use the chancy. I has got some cups 
and saucers at home as ’ud do for you and me every 
day, Silas. ” 

“ My gel,” said Aunt Hannah, “ come here and 
kiss me. Silas, I withdraw all my hopposition to 
yer wedding this gel ; the Lord has seen fit to give 
her a mind to match her face. She spoke now with 
rare wisdom, and my own three delf cups as I spoke 
on to yer last week. I’ll give to this gel as a wedding 
present.” 


JILL, 


225 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The tea-di’inking having turned out such a suc- 
cess, Silas went down to the village to spend the 
night with old Peters in a state of rare exultation. 

“ I wor right, yer see,” he said. “ I know’d what 
I were about when I asked that yere little cuttin’ 
to come and strike root in my garden.” 

“ She’s a werry purty cretur,” said old Peters. 
“I don’t go for to deny it, Silas, she’s rare and purty. 
But what ails her, man ? Do yer think as she has 
given yer her young affection ? You ain’t so young, 
Silas, and you ain’t to say ’ansome ; do yer think 
that gracious, purty gel gives back love for your 
love, Silas ? ” 

Silas felt as if a dash of ice-cold water had been 
thrown over his warm, glowing, happy heart. 

“ What can a gel do more nor say yes,” he re- 
marked after a pause. 

“ I’m not so sure on that,” replied Peters. “ Gels 

»ay ‘ yes ’ for lots o’ motives — the wish for a home, 
15 


226 


-JtlL. 


maybe ; oh, lots o’ motives. I’d have said that a 
young thing like Jill ’ud ehoose for her mate a lad 
with good looks hisself, and youth ; that’s what I’d 
have said from my experience of the faymale ’eart ; 
but there, Silas, don’t take on, man, I wor wrong 
’bout beauty and goodness goin’ together, so may- 
be I’m wrong ’bout t’other also. I can see that 
the gel has a great kindness for y^r, Silas ; but love, 
that’s quite another matter. What ails her eyes, 
for instance ? what’s back o’ them looking out at us 
all so gloomy like? My word, them eyes haunts 
me ; seems as ef a sperrit was looking through 
’ em, werry patient, werry sad. I could cry when I 
thinks on ’em. What’s the matter, Silas ? What 
ails yer, man ? ” 

“ You don’t s’pose as talk like yourn is pleasant 
to listen to,” replied Silas ; “ and you’re all wrong 
’bout Jill not wanting to have me. Why, I’ll prove 
it to yer now as yer wrong. I asked her to be my 
wife one morning at the market, and I suppose she 
felt skeer’t like, for she looked at me with her face 
as rosy as the day, and her eyes like great, deep 
wells with the wonder that filled ’em and she said, 
‘No, no, Mr. Lynn, it can’t be’ ; and she up with 
her basket and away she runned. W ell, of course I 


ntt. 


22 ? 


said to myself, there’s an end o’ this ; bnt, what do 
yer think, neighbor, the next morning early, soon 
arter day break, who should come down all the 
way from Lunnon to see me but this same little 
gel j she knocked at my door and called out to me 
to open to her ; and when I come it wor, ‘ Yes, yes, 
Mr. Ljrnn, I will marry yer ef you’ll have me.’ 
Worn’t that pretty good proof of her loving me, 
eh, Peters ? ” 

“ I don’t deny as it wor,” said Peters. 

Silas and Peters entered the small cottage of the 
latter, and, as Silas had to go to town in a couple 
of hours, they immediately parted for the night, 
Silas declining to go to bed, but declaring he 
could take a good sleep in Peters’s deep arm-chair. 

Just before they said good-night the old man 
made a request. 

“ Ef yer has time, Silas,” he said, “ I’d be much 
obleeged to yer if yer could call round to St. Bartho- 
lomy’s Hospital and leave this little parcel for my 
sister, Rachel Riggs. It’s a wool shawl of hers, as 
she allers sets store on, and I had a card from her 
to say as she wor better, and wanted, her shawl. 
You’d obleege me greatly, Silas, ef you could 
leave it.” 


JILL. 


228 

“Put it on the table there,” said Silas, “ and I 
won’t forget.” 

The old man went off to his own room, and 
Silas sat in the deep arm-chair and looked out at 
the summer night. There was nothing really to 
trouble him in the words that Peters had said, 
nevertheless they kept coming back in a teasing 
and irritating fashion. 

It was Peters’s opinion that Jill did not love him. 
What folly ! If ever a girl had gone out of her 
way to show that she loved a man, it was Jill. As 
to her face being somewhat pale, and as to the fact 
that her dark eyes were sad in their expression was 
not that always the case ? Had not Silas, who 
knew her so much better than Peters, always 
noticed that latent sadness in her charming face. 
He loved her all the better for it. 

“ It’s jest her kind heart,” he murmured ; “ it’s 
jest as there is trouble in the world, and she can’t 
help noticin’ of it. Why, see her to-night, when 
Mary Ann Hatton dropped the chaney saucer. 
Even that were too much for my Jill. Oh, yes, 
Peters quite mistook. Jill loves me, for sure, and 
I’m jest the werry happiest feller in the wide 
world.” 


JILL. 229 

Silas, however, notwithstanding these soothing 
reflections, felt too excited to sleep. He was glad 
when the first faint brightness in the east told him 
that the time had come for him to rise and begin 
his long day’s work. 

He softly left the cottage, and, going across the 
fields to his own small homestead, put the horses 
to the already carefully-packed wagon. Then 
going round to the cottage-door, he tapped with 
his knuckles at the window of the little bedroom 
where Aunt Hannah and Jill were sleeping. Jill 
was to accompany Silas back to town. She was 
dressed, and came out to him at once. Her face 
looked almost bright this morning ; she had a faint 
color in her cheeks, which was further deepened 
by the bright shawl which she wore round her 
head. When she came up to Silas and slipped her 
little brown hand into his, he instantly felt 
through his whole being that a glorious sun had 
arisen over the earth, and that old Timothy Peters 
must be fast approaching idiocy. 

“Come, Jill,” he exclaimed, “we’ll have a jolly 
ride into town. Why, yer ain*t cold, be yer, my 
dear?” ; 

“No,Silas.’^ 


230 


JILL. 


“ Only I thought I see’d yer shiver. It’ll be 
werry hot by-and-by, but ef yer finds this hour of 
the morning chill, I’ll fetch out my sheep -skin 
rug to wrap yer up in.” 

“ No, no, Silas, I ain’t really cold. Let’s start 
at once, and maybe when we gets to the brow of 
the hill we’ll see the sun rise. I has been up early 
enough most days o’ my life, but I never seed the 
sun rise for all that.” 

“ It’s a sight to remember,” said Lynn. “ Come 
along then, my choice little cuttin’, and we’ll get 
under weigh.” 

As a rule, Silas was a very taciturn man ; but 
on this particular morning it was he who did most 
of the talking. 

“ Eh, Jill,” he said once, as they approached 
London, “ to think as you and me ’ull be husband 
and wife to-morrow. The delight o^ it is a’most 
past belief. When I thinks on you as keeping the 
cottage bright, and cooking my meals for me, and 
watching as nobody comes and picks off the best 
blooms when I’m away at the market, I can scarce 
contain myself. I don’t believe in all the wide 
world tliere’ll be a happier pair nor you and me, 
Jill, for all that I am eight-and-thirty and you not 
seventeen yet.” 


JILL. 


231 


“ I hope as I’ll make yer a good wife, Silas, 
replied Jill. 

“ Oh, there ain’t no doubt on that, my little 
cuttin’. There’s that in you, Jill, that can’t help 
being good to folk. Lor, I could shout with larfin’ 
when I think how you twisted all them crabbed 
folk round yer little finger last night. J est a glint 
o’ your eyes and a soft word or two, and ’twor 
done. Even Mary Ann Hatton couldn’t stan’ out 
agen yer. But, Jill, I’m a thinkin’ that yer mother 
and yer two brothers ought to be asked proper to 
our wedding. Yer mother is as fine a figure of a 
woman as I know; and, though I don’t know what 
yer brothers are like, and I make no doubt they’re 
mischeevous little varmints as is to be found in the 
world, yet still wot’s yours is mine, Jill, and I’ll 
make them all free and welcome to come to the 
wedding to-moww. Wot’s the matter, my dear? 
Why don’t yer speak ? ” 

“ There ain’t nothing the matter, Silas. Seems 
to me lately as ef I had very few words of any sort 
to say. I’m obleeged to yer, Silas, for your kind 
thought about my folk, and I’d be right glad to 
have them with me when I’m wed ; but I han’t 
seen the boys for nearly three weeks. I’m think- 


232 


JILL. 


ing maybe they has run off to sea. Tom were 
always minded that way.” 

“Well,” said Silas, “ they might do worse. The 
sea is not so bad a life ef a lad is strong, and ef 
he don’t take up with bad ways. But ’bout yer 
mother, Jill ? It’s werry odd as I han’t laid eyes 
on her sence you and me made up our minds to get 
spliced.” 

“ Mother ain’t werry well,” said Jill, “ and ” 

But here her voice failed her ; she covered her face 
with her trembling hand, and burst into an agony 
of tears. 

Silas, in his absolute amazement, pulled up the 
horses, and, looking round at the weeping girl, 
surveyed her from head to foot with a sudden shy 
terror, which gave a ludicrous expression to his 
plain face. 

“Wot is it, Jill? Wot is it?” at last he 
gasped. 

“ Nothing, Silas, nothing,” she replied, checking 
her tears with a violent effort. “ It were real 
wrong of me to give way, and you so good. But 
I’m troubled ’bout mother orful, bitter troubled. 
She ain’t well, and I’m troubled ’bout her. Seems 
as ef I couldn’t speak on her lately. She won’t 


JILL. 


233 


come to the weddinV Silas, and you mustn’t ask 
me no questions ’bout the why and the wherefore. 
Maybe, arter we’re wed I’ll tell yer, but iiot now, 
dear Silas.” 

“Well, it’s you, I’m goin’ to wed,” said Silas, 
“ and ef you’re there, no matter about t’other folks, 
say I. Only I’m sorry you’re in trouble ’bout any- 
thing, my own little gel, and I only wish I could 
comfort you.” 

“ You do, Silas, you do.” 

“ Well, them’s good words to hear. We’re at 
the market now, Jill ; but as you ain’t going to 
sell flowers to-day, maybe you’d like to be gwine 
home. Next time we meets it’ll be till death us 
do part.” 

When Silas said these words Jill felt a sick agony 
creeping over her. They were the words she had 
longed to hear said over her and Nat. She turned 
her white face away, and, quickly leaving the mar- 
ket, ran home to Howard’s Buildings as fast as her 
feet could carry her. Silas, in excellent spirits, 
began to attend to his plants, flow’ersv and fruit. 
Any slight remaining uneasiness which might have 
lingered in his mind after old Peters’s words was 
now removed. Of course Jill loved him, but her 


234 


JILL. 


pallor and the sad expression in her eyes were both 
accounted for by some secret sorrow in connection 
with her mother. Silas determined to get at this 
grief, and if possible to remove it after he and Jill 
were married. He was too busy to-day, however, 
to give it any further thought ; he had not only to 
attend to his many customers, but he had to make 
arrangements for the two or three days’ holiday he 
meant to give himself after his wedding. He had 
to attend to a list of orders which Aunt Hannah 
had provided him with for the wedding feast ; and 
last, but not least, he must manage to call at St. 
Bartholomew’s Hospital with the little shawl for 
old Peters’s sister, Rachel Riggs. Silas knew Mrs. 
Riggs, and, with all those new qualities which the 
sunshine of prosperity" had awakened into being, it 
occurred to him that it would give her pleasure if a 
bunch of flowers accompanied the shawl. Silas 
would never have thought of giving Mrs. Riggs 
flowers in the old days, but he did many things now 
which astonished himself. 

When his business at Covent Garden was ended, 
he selected a large bunch of some of his commoner 
flowers, and started off to walk to the hospital. 
He had gone nearly half-way when it suddenly 


JILL, 


235 


entered into his head that it would largely add to 
Peters’s happiness if he, Silas, could contrive to see 
Mrs. Riggs for a moment or two. He knew enough 
about hospitals to be aware that he would not be 
admitted until the afternoon, so, leaving his flowers 
at the shop of a friend, he got through his other 
work, and Anally arrived at St. Bartholomew’s on 
the stroke of two o’clock, the earliest hour when 
visitors are admitted. 

Silas was taken at once to the women’s ward, 
where Mrs. Riggs was sitting up in her clean bed 
with a nightingale round her shoulders. Her 
wizened old face was lit up with a curious mixture 
of surprise, pleasure, and alarm when she saw. Silas 
coming gingerly on tiptoe down the long ward to 
see her. Her remembrance of Silas in the past was 
not a pleasant one — he was morose, intensely rough 
and disagreeable — a very upright man, of course, 
but the last to put himself out of the way to do a 
neighbor a kindness . It was astonishing, therefore, 
to see him with a little brown paper parcel in one 
hand and an enormous bouquet of flowers in the 
other advancing to meet her. Silas’s rough face, 
too, was all aglow, his coarse mouth was wreathed 
in smiles, his little ferrety, deep-set eyes were the 
windows through which a happy soul looked. 


236 


JILL. 


Mrs. Riggs said, “ My sakes alive ! wot’s come 
to the man ? ” under her breath. She stretched 
out her thin, old hand, which Silas clasped, and 
then, sitting down by her, he began to chat about 
the small doings of Newbridge and its inhabitants. 

Peters’s cough was certainly better, the Hibberty 
J oneses were in good case, Mary Ann Hatton 
looked quite fine for her. In short, the village was 
enjoying a heyday of prosperity, and Silas felt sure 
that they would all give Mrs. Riggs a hearty wel- 
come when she returned. He knew that the old 
woman was regarding him with a sharp stare of 
curiosity ; he was well aware that she was amazed 
at the change in him, but he did not feel inclined 
to betray his happy secret. There was a new 
sweet shyness about him when he thought of Jill 
and the great tender love he bore her. 

He had bid Mrs. Riggs good-bye, and was leav- 
ing the ward, when a full voice, rich in tone 
although somewhat weakened by recent illness, was 
heard pronouncing his name. 

A woman who was lying stretched out fiat in a 
bed at the far end of the ward was calling to him. 
Her voice had a piteous ring in it ; her black eyes 
were fixed on him with a world of entreaty in their 
glance. 


JILL. 237 

“ Come yere, Mr. Lynn, for the love o’ heaven, 
come yere,” said the voice. 

Lynn looked up the ward and immediately rec- 
ognized Poll Robinson. His heart gave a heavy 
thump ; he was conscious of a sudden weight of 
apprehension on him, and then, still walking on 
tiptoe, he marched up the ward and stood by the 
sick woman’s side. 

“Well, I’m blessed,” he exclaimed, looking 
down at her. “ So you’re here ; and that’s the 
secret wot’s troubling Jill.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Lynn, ha’ you seen my gel,” exclaimed 
Pol. “ Oh, you don’t knoAv the awful ’eart hunger 
as is over me, never to see her or to hear of her. 
Oh, Mr. Lynn, when I seed you a’coming in, I 
thought as you wor, maybe, an angel fro’ heaven. 
I said to myself, may be Jill has been a-buying 
flowers from Silas Lynn. Oh, my gel, my sweet, 
sweet gel. Ha’ you seen her, Mr. Lynn.” 

“ Yes, yes, Mrs. Robinson,” said Silas, “make 
your mind heasy ; Jill’s all right. Why I seen her 
this werry morning.” 

“ Oh, and is she well ; do she look happy ? ” 

“ She ought to look well, and she ought to be 
happy. It’ll be her wedding day to-morrow. Ef 


jiLl. 


238 

a gel don’t look, happy on the eve of her wedding 
day, why she never will, accordin’ to my thinkin’.” 

“ Oh, praise the Lord,” said Poll, “ then I ain’t 
done the mischief I thought. I wor mortal feared 
as she had broke off with Nat Carter, but ef they’re 
to be married to-morrow why it’s all right, and I 
ain’t done the mischief I thought.” 

“ Who didyer say as she were to marry?” asked 
Silas in a queer, thick, husky voice. “Wot name 
did yer say, Nat— Nat Carter ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; you must know him for sure — that 
’ansome young costermonger as allersgoes in good 
time to the market. You must mind him, Mr. 
Lynn, a tall, well set up lad, with blue eyes and 
as fair as Jill’s dark. Why they has loved each 
Other, them two, ever since my Jill were a little 
dot at school. Never seen anything like the way 
they took on one for t’other. Wot’s the matter, 
Mr. Lynii ? You must know o’ this, surely?” 

“Yes, of course,” said Lynn; he made a supreme 
effort to control himself and sat down on the chair 
by Poll’s bedside. 

“ You must know Nat Carter,” she continued, 
fixing her anxious eyes on him. 

“ Yes, yes, for sure.” 


JILL, 


239 


“It is an awful load off my mind, Silas Lynn, 
that they’ll be mamed to-inorrow. Mayhap you’ll 
be at the weddin’.” 

“ Not likely,” growled Silas. 

“ Well, well; you look pinched somehow in the 
face, neighbor. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jill 
worglad to see yer when she gives herself to Nat. 
She allers thought a sight on y^r ; she used to say 
to me, ‘ Mother, his bark is worse nor his bite.’ 
Oh, Silas, you don’t know what a load you has 
lifted from my ’eart.” 

“ Look yere, missus,” said Silas, “ I won’t go fer 
to deny that yer news has come to me sudden. 
Course, I know’d as Jill were to be married, but I 
never know’d as there were any hitch, so to speak. 
You might as well tell me what yer means, missus, 
for I takes a^a hinterest in the gel.” 

“ I don’t mind telling yer,” said Poll. “ Maybe 
its best for yer to know. You see, it wor this 
way. I had an awful bad pain ; I wor suffering 
from a sort of a tumor in my breast, and I can’t 
tell yer, Silas, what the suffering were like ; it 
seemed to shrink me all up, and the only way I 
could get ease, day or night, was by taking a di-op 
o’ gin. Sometimes I took perhaps more’n I ought, 


240 


JILL. 


and once or twice I know I forgot myself, and the 
sperrits seemed to go into my ’ead ; and what with 
the ease from pain, and the light cheery sort of 
feeling in my ’ead, I used to sing songs in the 
street, and even dance, and folks collected round 
me, and I brought shame to my pretty, sweet gel. 
Oh, the goodness of her, and the tenderness of her, 
and the way she’d shield me and not let anybody 
point a finger at me ; and the way she’d make 
s’cuses for me, and try to hush it up, and never let 
me even say to her as I had took a drop too much. 
Well, she engaged herself to Nat; it’s about a 
month ago now, and they two did look so ’appy ; 
and Jill she says to me, ‘I’m his till death us do 
part’ ; and oh, the look in her beautiful eyes, and 
the strength on her true, sweet face, and the way 
he looked at her, and he says, says he, ‘ The only 
thing I want in a woman is to be honest, and sober, 
and true.’ He said the words bitter ’ard, and I 
said to myself, ‘I can’t keep sober, but I won’t 
bring disgrace on Jill ; Nat Carter sha’n’t have it 
to say as he married the best gel in life only she 
had a drunkard for a mother.’ So I slipped away 
unbeknown to Jill, and I have never seen her since 
the day as she give herself to Nat. But three 


JILL. 


241 


days arterwards I met Susy, Nat’s sister, and she 
said words to me what made me fear as Nat had 
found out ’bout me, and that he were taking it 
bitter ’ard, and that, maybe, he had broke off with 
Jill. Oh, you don’t know what I felt, Silas Lynn. 
To give the gel up, and yet not to save her arter 
all I Oh, I thought as my ’ead ’ud turn crazy. I 
tried to go back to her, and I s’pose I fainted in 
the street, for I don’t remember nothink more until 
I found myself yere. I had an awful dread of 
hospitals, but my word, Silas, I made a big mis- 
taker Why they has took that awful, fearful 
tumour right away, and I han’t a bit of pain now, 
and they say as I’ll get well again. There’s news 
for Jill on her wedding morning.” 

“Yes, that’s good news,” replied Lynn, still 
speaking in that quiet, absent sort of voice. 
“ Shall I tell her as you’ll soon be quite well and 
back with her again, neighbor ? ” 

“ Oh, ef you would,” said Poll ; “ and there’ll 
be no need for Nat to fear me now, for I won’t be 
tempted to take the awful drink. I wor a sober 
enough woman afore the pain troubled me, and 
now that the pain’s gone I’ll be sober enough again, 

never fear. Ef Jill has kept the secret ’bout me fro’ 
16 


S42 


JILL. 


Nat Carter^ she can always keep it fro’ him in the 
future. Wot’s the matter, Silas Lynn, yer face 
has gone gray like, and I thought how well you 
looked when you wor coming across the ward to 
see me.” 

“ So I am well,” retorted . Silas ; I’m as right 
as rain. Now, good-bye, neighbor, I must be goin’. 
Ef I see Jill I’ll take her your message. Good-bye, 
neighbor, good-bye.” 

He left the ward, still treading on tiptoe, but 
with a certain heaviness in his gait which was not 
observable when he came in. - 

He went downstairs, and out into the brilliant 
sunshine. The hospital ward was cool and fresh. 
Outside there was a glare over everything. For 
the first time in his life Silas felt as if he might 
have sunstroke, or as if the great fierce heat might 
mount to his brain and give him fever. He had 
not yet realized in all its intensity the blow which 
had fallen on him ; he was only dimly aware that 
the happiness which had come so late in life to 
take up its abode in his heart, had found that dull 
room within him not large enough, nor bright 
enough, and so had gone away. He was aware of 
this, still he went on making his preparations for 


JILL. 


243 


tomorrow’s wedding. He ordered the necessary- 
foods to be sent down to Kent, for the wedding 
feast ; he bought a bonnet for old Aunt Hannah, 
and some cheap gimcracks to present to Mary 
Ann Hatton and Mrs. Hibberty Jones. 

At last he had finished his list of commissions, 
and he stood still for a minute to consider what he 
should do. He was not going to market to-morrow, 
so it was not necessary for him to return home 
early. It had been his intention to go back to the 
little cottage at Newbridge, in order to get it more 
completely ready for the sweet bride who was to 
enter it on the morrow. His flowers wanted extra 
watering and extra care in order to greet that one 
brilliant living blossom who was going to take root 
and settle down in their midst. Silas thought of 
encircling the porch of the cottage with a wreath of 
roses, of decking the table with which the wedding 
feast would be spread with flowers in many strange 
and lovely devices; but the wish to do any of 
these things had now suddenly left him. He 
determined not to go home at present. He had a 
dim sort of consciousness that his pain would be 
much greater at home even than it was here. 

Standing at the shady side of the street, leaning 


244 


JILL. 


up against the door of a restaurant, he tried to bring 
his brain to think connectedly of Mrs. Robinson’s 
words. He recalled them with an effort, and found 
that they amounted to the fact that Jill loved an- 
other man ; that she had engaged herself to him 
before she engaged herself to Silas ; that whereas 
Silas was old and ugly, Jill’s other lover was young, 
and comely to behold. There was no doubt 
whatever that something was troubling Jill. The 
facts were but too patent — she had some secret 
motive in consenting to wed Silas, but her heart 
was still with Nat. 

Having brought himself to face this fact, Silas 
thought carefully over Jill’s possible motives. He 
remembered her great anxiety to borrow five pounds 
from him. He recalled, with a hot flush of misery, 
the startled look on her face when he first told her 
of the conditions on which he would give her the 
money. He remembered then her journey into 
Kent, her readiness to comply with his request, and 
her painful anxiety to have the money, to take 
away with her, and to have no questions asked. 

“ I yielded at the time,” thought Silas, “ but I’m 
blessed ef I won’t get at the bottom o’ this thing 
afore the day’s out. I’ll go and see Jill, and 


JILL, 


245 


question her. We ain’t wedded yet, and I’ll know 
the truth afore we’re made man and wife.” 

Having made up his mind, Silas acted with 
promptitude. He was not long in reaching 
Howard’s Buildings. He ran swiftly up the stairs, 
and knocked at Jill’s door. She was hot expecting 
to see him again until they met the next day in 
Kent. There was a possibility that she might be 
out, but he must take his chance of that. He 
knocked with his knuckles on the panel of the 
door and waited. Partly to his relief, partly to add 
to his torture, he heard a light step within, and 
Jill came and opened the door. She started, and 
flushed slightly, when she saw him. There was a 
certain amount of pleasure in her face. She had 
evidently learnt to lean upon Silas, to appreciate 
much that was in him. 

“ I’d ha’ thought a few hours back as that look 
meant the tender dawning o’ love,” thought the 
man, “ but I know better now.” 

“Come in Silas,” said Jill, speaking in that 
gentle tone which she always used when addressing 
him. “ I wor packing my few bits o’ duds, and I’m 
sorry the place is in a mess ; but come in and set 
dowu, do,” 


246 


JILL. 


Silas entered, and closed the door behind him. 
He did not intend to say anything about Mrs. 
Robinson. He had no notion of betraying the 
secret which had come to him at present. Still, 
the heaviness of his heart was shown by his absence 
of compliment, by his indiff'drence to the disordered 
condition of the room. He sat heavily down on 
the first chair he came to, and laid a big hand on 
each knee. 

“ I ha’ come to have a little talk with yer, Jill,” 
he said. 

“ Yes, Silas, of course. Is anything the matter, 
dear Silas?” 

“No, my gel, there’s naught the matter. Only 
somehow, when a man takes the sort of step I’m 
about to take — ^when a man takes a young gel to 
his ’eart, and swears afore the Lord God Almighty 
to love her and cherish her, and cling only to her, 
why, ef he’s a man whose word is worth anythink, 
he feels kind o’ solemn, Jill.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Jill, “ but when a man’s like 
you, Silas Lynn, he’s quite sure to keep his word ; 
he needn’t be fretted ’bout what’s quite sure.” 

Silas gazed straight up at Jill while she was 
speaking, and a queer, very mournful smile lingered 
round his lips. 


JILL. 


247 


“ Yer think, then, Jill,” he said, “as I’d make a 
real good mate to yer? ” 

“ I do, Silas. ” 

“ You know as I loves yer,. my gel.” 

“ Yes, Silas, yes,” Her own lips began to 
tremble. She turned away. 

“ Jill,” continued Silas, “ there’s a weight on 
my -mind, and I must speak, or I’ll die. It’s a 
weight o’ love, little gel. I’m a rough man, and I 
has had a rough life. ’Cept the flowers, I never 
has had to do with anything soft or dainty. I cared 
for my mother, in course, and she wor good as good 
could be ; but she worn’t like you, Jill, with the 
skin o’ a peach, and the look of all the loveliest 
flowers made by God Almighty put together. You 
came to me, Jill, and when you put your little 
’ands into mine, then I knowed what love were. 
It’s a mighty thing, Jill, for any gel to get all the 
love of a strong man like me, the love that has 
been gathering up in me for close on forty year. 
Some folks, they love dozens o’ people ; they’ll 
give a little love to this one, and t’other one ; they, 
so to speak, splits up their love. But that ain’t 
me. In all the wide, wide world I love no one but 
you, little Jill, so you can guess as you has got 

ogqil bid 


248 


JILL. 


something strong — when you has won the love o’ 
a man like me.” 

Silas’s words came out with slow pauses, they , 
seemed to be wrung from him. His eyes were 
fixed upon the girl he was addressing. . She turned 
paler, and paler as he spoke.,. When he stopped, 
she burst into tears, 

“ Silas,” she said, “ I wish as you wouldn’t love 
me in that sort of awful way 

‘‘ I can’t help it, my dear ; it’s all with me, or 
it’s naught.” 

“ Silas, you frighten me.” 

“ I don’t want to, my pretty little dove. I won’t 
talk o’ it too much arter we is wedded, but I jest had 
to speak up to-day. Jill, the sort o’ love I can give 
’ud go down into hell itself for the sake of sarving 
the one it loves. I’ve been thinking, my little 
darlin’, of you, and wondering ef maybe you hadn’t 
some things as yer’d like to tell me afore we were 
wed. Love makes us see deep down, and I can 
guess as you’ve a trouble, little Jill ; maybe it’s 
’bout your mother, or maybe it’s ’bout that five 
pounds as I gived yer. I know I ha’ no right to 
ask ’bout the five pounds, but, ef you felt yerself 
free to tell me, why, I’d like to say that ef you had 


JILL, 


249 


the blackest secret that ever come to a gel to keepva 
why, it ’ud be all the same to me, I’d love yer jest 
all the same.” 

“I don’t think I ought to tell,” said Jill. “ It 
wor a secret, and you mind, Silas, as it were part '1 
of the bargain that I shouldn’t tell yer wot I wanted 
the money for, and that you shouldn’t ask no* 
questions.” 

“ I won’t, Jill, ef you’d rayther not tell,” said - 
Silas. “ I’d like to know. Afore we stood up in 
the presence of God, and promised to be true to:. 
each other, I’d like well to know anythink as wor 
troubling yer. For look yere, little Jill, it ain’t 
you as has done wrong, it ain’t you as has a secret'- - 
to hide ; but maybe there are some belonging to 
yer as yer wants to shield. Well, Jill, you can 
shield ’em no_ better way than by telling me, wot 
is to be yer husband, the whole truth.” 

While Silas was speaking, Jill’s face underwent- 
a queer change. It was as if a heavy and very 
dark mantle of care had dropped from it. She 
looked up at Silas with a sort of solemn rever- 
ence. 

“ I b’lieve as you’re a good man,” she said. “ I 
b’heve as you’re the best man I ever met,” 


250 


JILL. 


“ And yer’ll trust me, Jill ? ” 

“ I will, Silas, I’ll trust yer.” She sat down as 
she spoke, and crossed her hands in her lap. “ I’ll 
tell yer about the money,” she continued. “I 
know as yer’ll never bring it up to me nor to mine, 
and, besides, I need name no names. It were this 
way. A few days afore I come to ask yer to lend 
me some flowers, a friend — one I thought a sight 
on, one I — I loved., Silas- — give me five pounds to 
keep faithful, werry faithful, for a mate of his. I 
put the money into an old stocking with some sav- 
ings of my own. I was quite light in my heart 
then, and werry happy. I hadn’t known no trouble 
then. One morning I got up with the glad heart 
of a bird inside o’ me. I went into the kitchen jest 
where you and me is now, and I prepared, to go to 
the market. As I were leaving the house, I ’mem- 
bered I had no money in my pocket. I went to 
the bureau. There I found that the old stocking 
had been opened by some one, and all the money 
— and all my savings, and the five pounds wot my 
friend had give me to care for for his pal were gone. 
There was a letter on the top of the bureau telling 
me who had took the money. The money-all the 
money — was took away by some one else wot I 


JILL. 


251 


loved werry dear. You may s’pose, Silas, as I felt 
near mad. I wouldn’t and I couldn’t betray the 
friend wot took the money to the friend wot trusted 
me with it. That night the one who gave me the' 
money to keep came and asked for it back. I put 
a test to him, and I saw he could never bear the 
shock o’ knowing the truth, so ” 

Jill paused, thore was a break in her voice, she 
threw her apron over her head. 

“ So ? ” continued Silas. 

“ I let him go,” she added. 

“ And you come to me, little Jill ?” 

“ I did, Silas, I come to you.” 

“ And I give ye the money, and asked no ques- 
tions ? ” 

“ You did, you did.” 

“ And to-morrow we’ll be made man and wife 
afore God?” 

“ Yes, Silas, that’s so.” 

“ You b’lieve as I loves yer, Jill ? You b’lieve 
in the strength of my love ? ” 

“ I do, Silas.” 

“ Well, that’s all. You has told me wot were in 
your heart, and you’ll never be sorry. Now I must 
be gwine home. I’ll send the wagon up for you 


252 


JILL. 

to-morrow, and Aunt Hannah in it. And you’ll 
come down to me, faithful and true ? ” 

“ In course I will, Silas.” 

“ Well, kiss me now. Give me a kiss of your 
own free will. Jest say over to yourself — ‘ By this 
time to-morrow Silas Lynn will be my husband, 
and I his wife. And Silas loves me.” Say them 
words over, werry solemn like, to yerself, Jill, and 
then kiss me. There ain’t nothin’ in all the world 
I wouldn’t do for you, my little gel.” 

Jill raised her face. She lifted her velvety, 
rosebud lips to the man’s rough cheek. He caught 
her to him with frantic eagerness, pressed one kiss 
in return on her forehead, and left her, stumbling 
awkwardly out of the room, as though he were 
blind. 






/ 


JILL. 


253 

-OJ 

::: -T 37100 


CHAPTER XVII. 

When Silas returned to the cottage late that 
evening, he found Jonathan waiting for him with 
an expectant expression on his face. 

“ I ha’ redd up the whole place, master,” he said^ 
“ and brushed the path from the wicket up to the 
porch, and I ha’ watered the flowers, and I think 
there ain’t nothink more to be done. Everythink 
is quite ready. I thought as you’d like me to put 
the place in order, seeing as you was late in cornin’ 
home, master.” 

“ It’s all right, Jonathan,” said Silas, in a gentle 
voice. 

“ May be as yer’d like to look round, and see 
how I ha’ done it for yerself, master ? ” 

“ No, no, Jonathan, it’s safe to be all right, you 
can go home now, you’re a good lad, and yere’s 
’arf-a-crown for yer.” Jonathan pulled his forelock 
in acknowledgment of this bounty and turned to 


254 


JILL, 


leave the little flower farm. As he was walking 
down the path Lynn called after him, “ I s’pose,” 
he said, “ that Henry Best wor round to see arter 
the packing of the wagon.” 

Yes, master, it’s all ready, and Best’ll start 
the horses to market at one o’clock in the morn- 
ing.” 

“ You call at his cottage,” said Lynn, “ and tell 
him as I’ll be taking a seat into town with him.” 

“You! master!” Jonathan opened his wide 
mouth in amazement. Why, I thought ” 

“Never mind what yer thought,” thundered 
Lynn after him, “ do as ye’re told,, and make 
yerself scarce.” 

Jonathan quickened his steps, and Lynn very 
slowly entered the little cottage. A great many 
changes had taken place in the dingy room which 
. acted both as kitchen and parlor. There was 
plenty of daylight still, and Lynn looked round 
at all his preparations. The two small lattice 
windows had been subjected to such an ordeal of 
soap and water, that each tiny pane shone in the 
evening light, like a jewel. There was a clean 
new dimity curtain hung up before each window. 
The walls of the room had received a fresh coat of 


JILL. 


255 


color wash, the floor was nearly covered by the 
large gayly striped rug which had called forth 
Aunt Hannah’s indignation, the new mahogany 
table gave a solid and handsome appearance to the 
centre of the room, the new cane chair, with a 
striped gray and red tidy thrown over its back, 
had an inviting appearance. The little china 
cupboard, too, had been put up on the wall, and 
the gold and white china with the blue convolvulus 
pattern had been so arranged within it as to show 
to the best possible advantage. The old arm-chair 
in which Lynn’s mother had lived and died still 
kept its solemn position by the hearth. It was a 
high-backed chair with a shallow seat; it had 
a hard Puritanical look about it, and seemed to 
Lynn’s excited imagination now to frown at the 
gay new things which were bought for the bonny 
girl-bride who was to take possession of the little 
home to-morrow. 

“Ah! it’s a blow,” murmured Lynn, seating 
himself on the edge of a plain deal chair, and look- 
ing round the room. “ I ha’ got to make the best 
of it, but it’s an awful blow. Jill ’ll marry me of 
course ef I’ll have her, but the question is this, 
shall I have her? I has got to settle that pint 


256 


JILL, 


atween myself and the Lord God Almighty to- 
night.” Some bread and cheese was ready in the 
cupboard for Lynn’s supper, the cupboard door 
stood partly open, and he could see the brown loaf 
and the cheese from where he sat. He had eaten 
nothing since the morning, but the sight of food in 
his present state turned the strong man sick, he 
rose, and going to the little cupboard, shut the door 
and turned the key in the lock. I thought as 
the Lord had given over a-chastening o’ me,” he 
said, ‘‘I wor mistook. Oh, this yere’s an awful 
blow. I can take that young gel to wife to- 
morrow, but her ’eart won’t be mine, her ’eart’ll 
be another’s. Oh, tliis yere is a blow. Lord God, 
it seems kind o’ cruel that I should jest have had 
such a short bit of happiness, and then for it all to 
go. Now shall I read my Bible to-night, or shall 
I not ? ” 

Lynn paced up and down the tiny cottage while 
he thought. The sun set in the heavens, and the 
summer twilight, which could scarcely be called 
darkness, set in. He did not light his lamp nor 
draw his curtains, the darkness, which was not 
quite darkness after all, soothed him, he found it 
easier to face the great problem which had come 


JILL. 


257 


to him in the dim uncertain light. Jill was quite 
ready to marry him — should he marry her and say 
nothing about what he knew ? He loved her so 
intensely that he felt almost positive of his power 
to make her happy. He would give up his whole 
life to her, she should mould him and direct him, 
she should guide him with her gentle little hands. 
It would be impossible for her to be unhappy living 
among the sweet flowers in his garden, and 
surrounded by his great, mighty love. 

“ Yes, I love her fit to die for her,” he muttered. 
As he said these words, a thought swept over him, 
dike a flash ; he remembered a certain verse in the 
old Bible. “ G-reater love hath no man than this., 
that a man lay down his life for his friends.’’^ “ My 
God,” he exclaimed aloud, “ it's easy to say as I’d 
die for Jill, but it’s hard, hard to do it. I can 
take her to-morrow, for better for worse, and live for 
her., but that ain’t the pint. Seems to me as the 
Lord wants to prove my love for that little Jill by 
a sort of being crucified for her. I’m to give up 
myself and give her to another. Is that what I 
has got to do. Lord ? To kill my pleasure and my 
’appiness, is that the way I’m to show my love 
for little Jill? ” 


17 


258 


jiLl. 


“ G-reater love hath no man than this^ that a man 
lay down his life for his friends'^ The words 
seemed to echo through the silent room, as if they 
fell from the skies. Silas staggered to the window, 
pulled the lattice pane open, flung himself on his 
knees, and looked up at the summer sky, ^ ^ It’s 
bitter, bitter hard, Lord,” he muttered. 

He was not comforted by any thought of the 
nobleness of the sacrifice,. He grovelled on the 
ground, and clenched liis hands and tore his hair. 
“I can’t doit, I can’t do it, I won’t do it,” he 
muttered, but these words of defiance came at 
longer and longer intervals. The quiet, persistent 
voice kept on sounding in his ears, “ Greater 
love — greater love hath no man. He could not bear 
the sound at last : he pressed his hands to his ears 
and ran out of the cottage. 




259 


CHAPTER XVIII. ^ 

“ Well, I am surprised to see you at the market 
this morning, Silas Lynn,’’ said Molly Maloney, 
who had come to stock her basket with fresh flowers, 
and who came across Lynn standing moodily by 
one of the stalls. “ Why, ain’t this yer weddingt 
day? — but glorj^^ be to heaven, man, how blue you 
looks ! Where’s Jill ? is anything wrong with the 
bit of a colleen ? ” 

“ No,” said Lynn, there’s nothing wrong with 
Jill; she’s cornin’ down to me presently, and 
there’ll be a weddin’ sure enough ; don’t you make 
no mistake on that pint, Mrs. Maloney ; but I’m 
standing here a-looking out for a young chap o’ the 
name of Carter. Do you happen to know, ma’am, 
ef he’s come to the market yet ? ” 

“ Him as used to keep company with Jill ? ” ex- 
claimed Mother Maloney ; “ yes, I seen him ’arf 
an hour ago a-buying young peas and other vege- 
tables for his barrer ; he were round by the south 
door and ” But Lynn had left her. 


260 


JILL. 


He strode rapidly in the direction the Irish- 
woman had pointed out. His hands were stuck 
deep in his pockets ; his great sullen shoulders 
were raised almost to his ears ; the old ferocious 
look ^as oncfe more observable on his brow and 
round his mouth. 

Nat Carter had nearly concluded his purchases 
when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder ; 
he looked swiftly round and came face to face with 
Lynn. 

Nat colored high when he perceived the person 
who had touched him. A swift wave of crimson 
dyed his cheeks and broad white brow, then it 
receded, leaving the young fellow pale as death. 
His blue eyes flashed angrily at Lynn, his lips were 
firmly. shut, he clenched his fist, and waited for the 
other to begin. 

“ You ha^ heard,” said Lynn, who noticed these 
quick changes in the young costermonger’s face, 
with a sort of grim satisfaction; “ you ha’ heard, 
in course, that I’m a-gwine to wed that pretty little 
flower-gel, Jill Robinson, this arternoon.” 

“ It’s true, I ha’ heard,” replied Nat ; “ I don’t 
want to speak on it, Silas Lynn. I’m werry busy 
just now a-packing my barrer, and as you and me 


JILL. 


261 


can’t have naught in common, I’ll be wishing yer 
a good-morning.” 

“ But we can have a deal in common, lad,” ex- 
claimed Silas ; “ why, what a chicken ’eart you has, 
tiu-ning faint when a gel’s name is spoke ! ” 

“ Ef you say that again I’ll knock yer down,” 
said Nat. 

“Oh, tut, tut, ain’t I twice yer age nearly, and 
a good bit more than twice yer strength ? Look 
yere, Nat Carter, I want to talk this matter over 
with you, I ha’ heard something ’bout you and Jill 
what must be cleared up afore I take her afore the 
parson. I want to do wot’s right and jest by that 
yere gel. Your ’appiness ain’t nothing to me, Nat 
Carter ; and my own ’appiness ! well the Lord 
knows as that ain’t worth considerin’ either. But 
Jill’s ’appiness, that’s everything. You and me ’as 
got to argufy that pint out werry clear, young 
man.” 

Nat did not reply for a moment or two, then he 
said in a slow voice, 

“ I had made a vpw in my heart that I’d never 
speak the name o’ that young gel, Jill Robinson, 
again,” he murmured. “ I heard as she were about 
to be spliced up with you, Mr. Lynn, and I said to 


262 


JILL. 


myself I ’opes as I’ll never meet that old man, Silas 
Lynn, or may be I’ll be doin’ him a mischief. I 
don’t want to meet yer, or to speak with yer, nor 
to hear anything more ’bout Jill. It’s quite true 
as I dreamt a dream that there wor a gel o’ that 
name, wot could be all the world to me. I woke 
one arternoon and there worn’t no sech Jill no- 
where on God’s wide earth. I don’t want to speak 
to you about the gel you’re gwine to marry, Mr. 
Lynn.” 

“ Not ef I tell yer somethink that’ll prove to 
yer as the Jill you dreamt on, is still living on this 
eai'th, sweeter and brighter nor the best and the 
purtiest sweet spring flower ; ef I proves that to 
yer, will yer come along and talk with me, Nat 
Carter?” 

A queer, convulsive change, came over Nat’s 
face, when Silas said these words. He hesitated 
for a moment. 

“I — I’ll come,” he said then. “ I didn’t think 
as I could be sech a weak fool, but somehow I 
don’t know myself lately.” 

He called to a tall, slight lad who stood near, 
gave him some directions with regard to the vege- 
tables and fruit he had just bought, and turned 
with Lynn to leave the market. 


JILL. 


268 


The two men turned down a side street and 
entered a small restaurant, which was nearly empty 
at> this early hour. Lynn called to the girl who 
stood behind the counter to bring coffee for two, 
and then walked with Carter into the back room, 
which they had absolutely to themselves. 

“ There can’t be no smooth words between you 
and me to-day, Nat Carter,” said Lynn, turning sud- 
denly and facing the younger and slighter man. 
“ The facts of the case are these. This yere is my 
wedding-day. I’m about to contract marriage with 
a young gel not seventeen year old and I — you’re 
pleased to call me an old man, Nat Carter, and I 
don’t deny as I’ll see forty years come two more 
summers. But a man pf my age is in his prime. 
You young ’uns think to laugh at us, but there 
ain’t no laughing in these muscles,” here Lynn 
doubled his brawny arm, nor in this yere chest, 
nor in these legs, nor in this fist. I feel pretty 
sartin’ as this yere fist o’ mine ’ud knock a slim, 
straight young feller like you into kingdom come, 
Nat Carter. There’s nothing o’ decay ’bout me, 
although you think fine to call me old. My 
strength is in its prime — and my passions, my love, 
and my hate— why, they're in their prime, too. I 


264 


JILL. 


tell yer, Carter, that the love of a young feller like 
you ain’t nothing to the love n’ a man like me — 
but that ain’t the pint-— wot am I talking on? 
Come and set down here, Carter, and let me speak 
quietly to yer.” 

“I don’t know why you have dragged me in 
yere,” said Carter, “ I wor busy with my work ; I 
don’t want yer to flaunt yer ’appiness in my face.” 

“ Will you have anything to eat with the coffee, 
gentlemen,” said the girl who brought it in. 

“ Nothing— go,” thundered Lynn ; she disap- 
peared quickly, and Silas turned to Carter. 

“ Poor lad,” he said in an almost pitying tone, 
“ you talk o’ me flaunting my ’appiness in yer face 
— I must be awful full o’ malice to do a thing o’ 
that sort. You wait awhile. Carter, and see how 
the tables ’ull turn presently. As I wor saying, 
this yere is my weddin’-day — I and that little gel 
with the dark eyes and the sweet look, and the 
scent of the wild flowers ’bout her, wor to be spliced 
up afore the passon to-day. Oh, I wor ’appy — 
the Lord God Almighty knows as I wor a’most too 
’appy to live. Yesterday it seemed to me as ef I 
trod on air — Oh, what wouldn’t I ha’ done for my 
little gel ! But yesterday, Carter, ’appiness and 


JILL. 


265 


me said good-bye to one another. Now you listen, 
young man, your tuim is a cornin’. I went yester- 
day to St. Bai'tholomey’& Hospital to take a parcel 
to a sick neighbor. As I wor leaving the ward, a 
woman screeched out to me. I turned,„and who 
should I see but Jill’s mother, Poll. Ah, you may 
well start, young man, but you wait a while, there’s 
more to come. I went up to that woman, and she 
spoke to me and arsked had I seen Jill. I 'said, 
‘ Yes.’ She arsked, ‘ Is Jill ’appy? ’ I said * yes ’ 
again to that. Then I added, looking ’ard at her, 
‘ It ’ud be queer ef Jill worn’t ’appy seeing as she’s 
to be wed to-morrow.’ ” a 

“ ‘ Oh, thank the good. Lord,^ said Poll;. ^I’m 
real glad to hear that. I was frightened as she 
and Nat Carter wouldn’t wed one another.’ You 
may suppose, young man, as I turned a bit* sick 
and queer when I heard words o’ that sort. I jest 
knew you as a likely chap what bought wege tables 
in the market. I had never heard you and Jill 
spoke on as keeping company* I had to steady 
myself a bit ; but I spoke quite quiet, and got Poll 
to tell me all that wor in her ’eart. Seems to me, 
young man, that you’re a person with mighty little 
o’.the quality what pious folks Qall /^l^^A;, seems 
to me as you’re but chicken-hearted in your love. 


266 


JILL. 


However, to my tale. Poll said as you and Jill 
had allers loved each other ever since you was kids, 
and that when she saw Jill last,^ you and she had 
made up yer minds to get spliced to one another 
as soon as a passon could be found to tie yer up. 
Well, poor Poll she had an ugly secret, and she 
was mortal feared o’ your finding it out. Jill 
know’d o’ it, but Poll didn’t want you ever to know. 
She said you wor good, but a bit ’ard, and you 
wouldn’t have naught in the world to do with any 
gel what worn’t honest and sober and true. Jill 
wor honest and sober and true ; but Poll herself, 
poor soul, suffered awful pain fro’ a bad sort of 
tumor in her breast, and she tuk gin on the quiet 
to ease it. She made no bones o’ it to me that she 
often got drunk to ease the pain, and Jill know’d 
it, although she wouldn’t let on. Well, when you 
and Jill said as you’d become man and wife. Poll 
thought as she’d run away, so as you’d never hear 
of her and never find out as Jill wor the daughter 
of a woman as drank. She was in an awful takin’ 
as you’d bear’d of the news, for yer sister met her 
and said some cruel words, and it wor a real load 
off her mind when I told her as Jill wor to be mar- 
ried to-day ; she made sure, in course, as the bride- 
groom wor to be you. 


JILL. 


267 


“ I left the hospital without having let out one 
single thing ’bout myself. It don’t matter to you, 
young man, how I felt. I thought over everythink, 
and I went to see Jill. Afore I spoke to her 
mother, I made sure as the pretty bit of a cuttin’ 
wor a-taking real root in my ’eart; but arter I 
heard Poll’s story, I made jest as sure as she never 
cared for me ; she only married me to save herself. 
To make a long story short, it seems that you give 
her five pounds to take care on for a pal o’ yourn. 
Well, she lost the money — I make no doubt, from 
what I draw’d out of her, that her mother stole it. 
She come to me to ask me to lend her five pounds. 
I said I’d give it to her ef she’d wed me. She said 
no at first ; but the next morning early she come 
all the way down to my bit of a cottage in Kent, 
and said yes as she would wed me ef I’d give her 
the five pounds and arsk no questions. You may 
well look queer, Nat Carter. You ask your own 
’eart what you did to make a gel like Jill give jev 
up, and be too frighted to tell yer the truth. Look 
at me-^i’m rough enough, ’eaven knows — but do 
yer think she’d be frightened to arsk me any think? 
No, no ; that ain’t Jill. And now the pint to be 
decided on is, what’s best for her ’appiness ? ” 


268 


JILL, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

^ ( '.H 

Even the humblest abode can look gay and 
bright when it is decked all over with flowei’Sjand 
when the windows look out on gay gardens and 
blooming plants, and take in also distant peeps of 
lovely country. Kent has beem .well called the 
garden of England, and that part where Silas 
Lynn lived, and where his little flower farm w-as, 
was as brilliant and as rich in all kinds of vegeta- 
tion as any spot in the whole of the county. 

A few of the village folks had been asked to 
meet the bride at Silas’s little cottage. The whole 
party were then to walk to church together, and 
afterwards, late in the evening, Silas and his wife 
were to go away by train to the nearest sea-side 
port. 

This was the little programme which Aunt 
Hannah Royal devoutly believed was to be carried 
out. 

Mary Ann Hatton, Mrs, Hibberty Jones, an- 


jxll. 


269 


other neighbor of the name of Ann Spires, and 
two or three men, were all waiting in the little 
parlor when Silas appeared leading Jill by the hand. 

The little bride wore a new print dress with a 
tiny spray of rosebuds aU oyer it. Her beautiful 
hair was bound tightly round her head, but in 
spite of all her careful brushing, some tendrils 
would get loose. She wore no ornament of any 
kind, not even a flower from Silas’s garden. As 
he took her hand and led her into the midst of his 
friends, she looked at him as if expecting the gay 
bouquet which he had promised her. He took no 
notice of her questioning gaze, however, but, lead^ 
ing her forward, stood before the expectant com- 
pany. 

“Neighbors and friends,” he said, “I ha’ to 
thank you for coming here to-day. You have 
known me, most of you, for many years, and I’m 
sure you are all willing and proud to look on at 
the great ^appiness which it seems to you I’m ’bout 
to have.” 

When Silas said these words, old Peters made a 
profound bow to the bride. 

“ There ain’t no doubt on the pint of your 
’appiness, Silas, he said. ' 


270 


JILL. 


“ I don’t think there is any doubt,” answered 
Silas, with a queer look on his face. “ Ef I wor to 
take this young gel to my’ ’eart it’d be all the same 
as ef I wor back again in the spring-time of life. 
The gladness and the lightness of youth would 
come back to me. Summer’s all very well,” con- 
tinued Silas, looking round at his friends, “ but 
for gaiety there’s no time like spring. Now this 
young gel is in the early spring, and I, neighbors, 
I’m a man as is enjoying of his late summer. I’m 
full-blown, and this yere young gel is a bud. Now 
which, neighbors, would you say wor the most 
waluable from the market gardener’s pint of view, 
the bud or the flower wot’s come to its maturity ?” 

“ I allers set store by buds,” said Mary Ann 
Hatton, in her tart voice. “There’s a sight o’ 
promise ’bout ’em, and we know as the full-blown 
flower have had its day ; but I’m meaning no dis- 
respect to you, Silas.” 

“ No more you are, Mary Ann, and I’m obleeged 
for a plain answer. Now that pint’s clear. The 
bud’s more waluable nor the full-blown flower. 
Neighbors, I’m glad to see yer, for I ha’ got a 
case for you all to decide. I didn’t think as there 
wor sech a decision to be made when I asked yer to 


SILL. 


271 


my wedding, but circumstances has arose sence I 
last saw any of yer, wot makes it but fair that this 
young gel should get your mature opinion.” 

“ Wot is it, Silas ? ” asked Jill, suddenly turning 
round and looking at him. “ I ha’ come down 
yere to wed yer ; it ain’t no affair of anyone’s 
but yours and mine. Maybe we ought to be going 
to the church, Silas ; maybe it’s ’bout time.” 

“ Hark to the little cuttin’,” said Silas, .with a 
harsh, troubled laugh, “ you can’t none of yer say^ 
neighbors, as she ain’t willin’. Now, my little 
dearie, you let Silas speak. I ha’ thought it all 
out, and I means to put the case to my good friends 
here. I think they has already answered me, but I’ll 
put the question once more. Neighbors all, ef 
one of us two could only be made ’appy by this 
yere wedding, which is to be most considered, the 
bud or the full-blown flower ? ” 

“ It’s a wery queer question,” said Peters, “but, 
in course, we must give it for the bud, Silas.” 

“ No, I don’t see nothink of the sort,” exclaimed 
Aunt Hannah. “ Silas Lynn is a man of family ; 
he comes of a pious stock, what tuk great care of 
their chaney, and mended their carpets, and pol- 
ished up their furniture. Silas’s mother, what died 


272 


JILL. 


of the asmy, were as God-fearing and s’pectable a 
woman as wore shoe-leather. Silas comes of a good 
stock, and that, in a case of weddin’, is much to be 
considered. I’m not saying anythink agen that 
young gel, she has right opinions, and she can be 
trained ; but when all’s said and done, she’s a 
London gel, and she’s in rare luck to get Silas.” 

“ That’s wot I think. Aunt Hannah,” said Jill ; 
she went up to Silas as she spoke and linked her 
hand in his arm. ‘‘ I’m not ashamed to say, Silas,” 
she continued, looking him full in the face, with a 
great tenderness filling her eyes, “ that I love yer 
better each day. I’m abundantly willing to marry 
yer, Silas.” 

“ Thank you, my little gel,” said Silas. “ Thank 
you, too. Aunt Hannah, but in a case like the 
present a man must judge for himself. I’ll ask 
yer now one plain question, Jill : Look solemn in- 
to yer ’eart, my gel, and tell me true as you wor 
standing afore the angels, is there no man on this 
’arth what you love better nor me. You answer 
me that, pint werry plain. Do you love me, Silas 
Lynn, better nor anyone else on God’s wide 
arth?”. 

Silas’s words, his attitude, the piercing way he 


JILL. 


273 


looked at Jill had a great effect on all the visitors. 
Even Aunt Hannah began to feel that there was 
more in all this talk than appeared on the surface. 
As for Jill herself she turned first pale, then rosy 
red. After a very short pause she said, in a queer 
tone : — 

“ I couldn’t tell yer a lie to-day, Silas. I can 
only say, let by-gones be by-gones, and I can 
faithfully promise afore God Almighty to make 
yer a good wife.” 

“ But I won’t have yer for wife ef yer don’t love 
me best of all,” said Silas. “ Wait one moment, Jill. 
There’s someone else to have a say in this yere.” 
He walked across the room and flung the door open. 
“ Come in, Nat Carter, and speak for yerself,” he 
called out. “ Ef Jill can say as she loves me more 
than you, why I’ll take her to church and wed her. 
Ef not — now, Nat, come in and speak, man.” 

There was a little buzz amongst the guests. Mary 
Ann Hatton was heard to say afterwards that she 
never felt nearer fainting in her life. She uttered 
a little gasp which no one heard ; Aunt Hannah 
gave a snort which no one listened to. All the pairs 
of eyes were fixed on the handsome, straight-look* 
ing young man who came into the room, who 


274 


JILL, 


blushed as deeply as Jill did, and walked at once 
to her side. 

“ Jill,” he exclaimed, “ there never wor sech a 
noble feller as this yere Silas Lynn. He ha’ put a 
deal o’ things straight ’tween you and me this 
morning, and ef you still loves me best, why, sweet- 
heart ” 

: “ Oh, Nat, I do, I do, I can’t help itj^ exclaimed 
poor Jill, She flung herself into her lover’s arms, 
who kissed her passionately on her brow and lips.. 


“ Take her out for a bit , into the garden,” whis- 
pered Silas in a , hoarse voice to the youog man. 
“ Go awayi both on yer, for a little, while I ’splain 


things to the neighbors.” 

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JiiX. 


275 


CHAPTER XX. 

■ <S' 

The moon and the stars have some advantages 
which mankind in times of perplexity would gladly 
possess. For instance, they can take a bird’s-eye 
view of events ; from their lofty stand-point they 
can look down on more than one place at a time 
in this small world. Doubtless things of immense 
and overpowering importance to us assume their 
juster proportions from this immeasurable dis- 
tance. 

On the night which should have been Silas 
Lynn’s wedding night, there was a clear sky, the 
moon was at its full, and the stars shone in multitudes 
in the deep blue firmament. Amongst other things 
they looked down on a ship returning to its native 
shores. There were sailors on board of course, and 
many passengers, and, amongst others, a mther dis- 
consolate, pale-faced, freckled boy, who sat on his 
bunk in the sailors’ cabin, and rubbed his tear- 
stained, small eyes with one dirty knuckle, while 


276 


JILL. 


in his other hand he held a pen, and tried to scrib- 
ble some words on a sheet of paper. 

“ Dear Sister Jill,” he wrote, “ this is to say 
that Tom and me has had a bad time of it. We are 
real sorry as we tuk the money, and then put the 
sin o’ it on mother, W e don’t like being sailors, 
and we gets lots o’ cuffs, and Tom ran away at the 
last port. I ain’t coming ’ome, although the ship 
will be in England in twenty-four hours, ef the 
weather keeps fair ; but I write now to say as it was 
me and Tom tuk the money, all ’cept one pound 
ten what mother tuk when she ran away. This is 
to say, too, as I rubbed out mother’s writing on the 
letter, and put in the words that said she tuk it all. 
It worn’t mother ; it wor Tom and me. I believe 
the proverb now ’bout ill-gotten gains, for I’m very 
misribble. 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“ Bob.” 

Some tears dropped from Bob’s eyes on the 
crooked and ill-spelt writing; but the letter got 
finished somehow, and, what is more, got into an 
envelope which bore the superscription, “ Jill, 
Howard’s Buildings,- — -Street, London.” . A 


JILL. 


277 


stamp 'v^as fixed on the envelope^ and it was 
dropped into the ship’s letter-box, and in due 
course did reach Jill’s hands. 

Several other characters have been introduced 
into this story, and the moon and stars looked down 
on them all, on Poll, lying on her bed in the hos- 
pital ; on Susy Carter ; on Irish Molly Maloney. 
But perhaps those on whom the brilliant rays of 
that clear full moon shone with the deepest interest 
was on Jill and Nat, who sat once again in the 
garden on the Embankment, and talked of their 
wedding-day. They were together and happy, 
and they said anew that they owed it all to 
Silas. 

“ Who’^d ha’ thought it?” said Nat; “and 
he looks so rough.” 

But Jill would not even admit now that Silas 
was rough. 

“ You don’t know what a tender heart he has, 
Natl” she exclaimed. “Ef he has a roughness, 
it’s only jest on the surface, and what matters 
that ? Oh, Nat, I’m quite positive sure that 
I’ll allers love Silas next best in all the world to 
mother and you.” 

For Silas himself, he stood at that moment by 


278 


JILL. 


the porch in his little garden ; his arms were 
folded, his head was bare, the flowers lay sleep- 
ing at his feet, and the great glory and peace of 
the summer heavens surrounded him. There had 
been a tempest in his soul ; but even the fiercest 
storms have their limits, and this storm, though 
it might rend him again, was for the present suc- 
ceeded by calm. It is true that his heart felt 
sadly bruised and sore. 

“ I’m sort o’ empty,” he said to himself, “ I ain’t 
sorry, in course, as I done it. I might ha’ guessed 
that the sweet little cuttin’ couldn’t take root yere,” 
and he struck his breast with his great hand; 
“ but all the same I’m sort o’ empty.” 

He went back into the house, and shut the door 
behind him and sat down in the chair which 
he had bought for Jill; but the moonbeams still 
followed him, and shone all over him as he sat 
near his lattice window. 

“ I ain’t sorry I ha’ done it,” he repeated. 
“ Lord, I’m willin’ ; I’m a poor sort o’ critter at 
best, but I’m willirC to do thy will.” 

He sighed heavily several times, and at last, 
worn out from many emotions, fell asleep where he 
sat in Jill’s chair. 


JILL. 


279 


There are compensations for all ; and, although 
Silas did not know it, he had risen out of the 
commonplace that day and was enrolled in heaven 
as one of God’s heroes. ^ V 




THE END. 




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